
Class _£5.J_^;3_^ 

Book -^-A^- l L 5' 

CQRIfRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



The Light of a 
Baby's Smile 

o4.nd Other Rhymes 



By William Tipton Talbott 



WASHINGTON: 

TERMINAL. PRESS, INC. 

1921 



i^'^ 






^^\^' 



Copyright, 1921, by 
WILLIAM TIPTON TALBOTT 



SEP -2 1921 



g)CI.A622646 



THE POETASTER AND THE DICTIONARY 

Oh, Dictionary, mine of varied learning, 
Auriferously bright your treasures smile. 

But smiling mock my still unfruitful yearning 
To cultivate a rich poetic style 
In priceless stores of verse heaped pile on pile. 

There seems to murmxir through your verbal mazes 
The music of an undertone sublime 

Which, linked with cunningly assorted phrases. 
Would make my name resplendent for all time 
In treasured volumes of blank verse and rhyme. 

So, growing still of jingled fancies fonder. 
With no intent to do high art a wrong. 

In roseate clouds of verbiage I'll ponder 
On metric subtilties with purpose strong 
To find at length the golden key of song. 

Then will I proudly pass through fame's bright portals 
And stir the lyric strings with fingers deft. 

So that my unmelodious fellow mortals 
Of soothing verse will never be bereft 
Nor fancy fail while you and I are left. 



CONTEINTS 

Pagre. 

Adam Bugg in a Mix-Up 148 

Adam Bugg's Christmas Qermon 140 

Ambition 93 

Amos J. Cummings ISO 

Anthracite of Love, The 170 

Anvil of the Heart, The 62 

Appalling Falling, An 110 

Aquatic Tragedy, An 117 

Autumnal Fancy, An 110 

Baer, Thanks to 169 

Battle Hymn of Panama 179 

Because He Didn't Take His Leave 173 

Belated Christmas Story, The 18 

Bicycle Jenkins 160 

Bicyclers, Song of the 159 

Bicycler, Ye Jollie 162 

Bill Billf orce 152 

Bill's Platform, Concerning 84 

Bindery Boy, Ballad of the 154 

Blinktum Winktum, Little 14 

Black and White of It, The 94 

Browning, Mrs. • • 70 

Burns 69 

Byron 60 

Carnegie's Dream 187 

Cats, The 108 

Chanticleer in Urbis 45 

Chauffeur, Love Song of a Jay 118 

Child of Art, The • • 37 

Christmas Story, The Belated 18 

Climbers, The 32 

Cloud and the Star, The 46 

Concerning Bill's Platform 84 

Concerning the Concord Philosophy 165 

Cry of the Defeated, The 74 

Cummings, Amos J 139 

Cynic, The 94 

Daybreak 53 

Democracy of Beauty, The 93 

Derelict, The 44 

Dreamer's Heart, The 36 

Dubious Idealist, A 104 



Page. 

Easter Transformation, An 92 

Extra-Inning Game, The 86 

Fairest, The 59 

Fatalism 73 

Federal City, The 20 

Fly-leaf Verses 68 

Freedom, The Song of 34 

Futility of Pessimism, The. 93 

Gentle Chief, The 176 

Girls of the G. P. O., The 143 

Goldsmith 68 

Gospel Melon, The 114 

Hand in Hand 60 

Hard Spitter, Remarks by a ISO 

Hero Painting 38 

Highway Ditty 161 

His Fairv 56 

His Tragic iSoul 116 

Hood 69 

How an Ex-President Failed to Save His Country. 172 

How To Be Thankful 67 

Ichthyoria 48 

Inspiration 105 

Jack 12 

Jay Chauffeur, Love iSong of a 118 

Jefferson 22 

Jilted Bard, The 98 

Jokes in Jingles, Obsolete and Obsolescent 123 

Journalistic Rhymster 157 

Life, A 41 

Lifting of Ye Cuppe, Ye 182 

Light of a Baby's iSmile, The 9 

Little Blinktum Winktum 14 

Little Fan, Rhyme of the 87 

Little Housekeeper, The 10 

Little iSlippers 57 

Little Tiny Toes 15 

Lost Childhood 65 

Longfellow 70 

Love and Fame 105 

Love Sophist, The 96 



Page. 

Love-sick Oculist, The • • 97 

Love's Message 54 

Love Song of a Jay Chauffeur 118 

Mad Quest, The 95 

Milton 68 

Miser's Clutch, The 93 

Miss Canada, Uncle Sam to 178 

Moore 69 

Mount Pleasant, Spring in 23 

Mrs. Browning 70 

Musings of a Woman Suffragist 167 

Naturalistic Warbler, A 100 

New Year, The 17 

New Year: 1904 142 

New Ballad of the Old Home 107 

Night Manne, Ye 150 

Obsolete and Obsolescent Jokes in Jingles 123 

Old Piano, The 171 

One Sure Thing, The 190 

Opening Remarks of the Oyster 89 

Opening the Door 186 

Oyster, The 88 

Panama, Battle Hymn of 179 

Peace, The Voice of 29 

Pessimistic Addendum, A 101 

Pillar of the Works, A 144 

Piney Branch 24 

Piney's Night (Song 28 

Poe 70 

Poet, The 30 

Poet on the Links, A 94 

Poets, The 188 

Post-Victorian Anomaly, A 99 

Practical Punster, A 115 

Pressman, Rhyme of the 145 

Progress 64 

Proofreader and the Bard, The 90 

Realist, A 91 

Remarks by a Hard Spitter 180 

Rhyme of the Little Tan 87 

Rhymes of the Hippowheel 158 



Page. 

Sad Iron, The 102 

Sermon for Cynics, A 76 

Shakspere 68 

Sing a Song of Concord 164 

Snorer, Tlie Ill 

Song of Freedom, Ttie 34 

Song of the Joke 135 

Songs of the Anthracite Coal Strike 169 

Spring in Mount Pleasant 23 

Stoic, The 61 

" Sweet " 50 

Sweet Oblivion 105 

Sweet Reasoning 16 

Talkative War Cloud, The 184 

Talker, The 82 

Tennyson 70 

Thanks to Baer 169 

Three of a Kind 112 

Tiny Toes, Little 15 

Toil 42 

Uncle iSam to Miss Canada 178 

Uncle (Sam to Wu 174 

Under the Stars 58 

Unshaken State, The 66 

Visitation from the Hollow, A 26 

Voice of Peace, The 29 

Wanderer, The 85 

War Cloud, The Talkative 184 

Washington 21 

When Poets Sing 81 

Whistle, The 146 

Wliistling Wind, The 52 

Whittier 70 

Winter Sunset, A. 47 

Woman, A 40 

Woman Hater, The 106 

Woman Suffragist, Musings of a 167 

Wordsworth's Inconsistency 101 

Wu, Uncle Sam to 174 

Young Man's Plaint, The 55 

Zion Alley, In 113 




> 



THE LIGHT OF A BABY'S SMILE 

Since man in his weakness the impulse knew 

From the better path to roam, 
The beacon that has ever held him true 

Is the guiding star of home. 
Then ring, bells, ring ; let your voices tell 

Of the fireside's cheer the while, 
Where the watchful mother sees earth grow fair 

In the light of a baby's smile. 

We dream of glories that fade and fail 

In the rush of the fleeting years ; 
But we'll trust the future and never quail, 

Though our longings end in tears. 
Then ring, bells, ring ; let your voices tell 

How the war against all things vile 
Shall be waged till the hearts of men find peace 

In the light of a baby's smile. 

Oh, long must we wait for the perfect day 

And too often in darkness grope. 
But there glimmers an ever-brightening ray 

From the war-dimmed star of hope. 
Then ring, oh, bells; let your voices tell 

Of a future free from guile — 
Of the promise that dawned at Bethlehem 

In the light of a baby's smile. 



THE LITTLE HOUSEKEEPER 

A little housekeeper years ago, 

Blue-eyed and with hair of gold, 
In a garden nook, with her cheeks aglow, 
Through a mimic kitchen went to and fro 
And kneaded her mimic lumps of dough, 
And her mimic pie-crust rolled. 

Of tiny dishes and pans and pots 

She had an abundant array. 
Oh, she was a creature of frugal thoughts ; 
In her pantry, the tidiest of spots. 
Were make-believe jellies and pastry and lots 

Of make-believe fruit stowed away. 

And through the fence, as she moved about, 

Her glances demurely ran 
To where, with red lips in a bashful pout 
(Not overbold, but with heart too stout 
By an aproned sprite to be put to rout) , 

Stood a brown-eyed little man. 

His body swayed with the movement shy 

Of mistrustful little men 
When a stranger maiden stands hard by 
And they don't know whether to stay or lEly, 
And would fain, but dare not, venture nigh. 

She pondered awhile, and then — 



10 



Her look sedate was with sunshine fraught 
And she straightened her knitted brows. 
"He doesn't look a bit bad," she thought; 
Then cried, as the ground his glances sought, 
All unconscious of the spell she wrought, 
" Won't you come and play keeping house ? " 

He went and played. Ah, the debonair 
Sweet maid proved a comrade boon ; 

And of household burdens each took a share. 

While their grave, quaint prattle filled the air 

In a guileless mockery of care, 
All that golden afternoon. 

He went and played. That was years ago. 

Nor has fortune done him ill ; 
For the little housekeeper, with cheeks aglow, 
Who kneaded her mimic lumps of dough 
(With a kiss to seal it, he says 'tis so) 

Is his little housekeeper still. 



11 



JACK 

One day, as lazily the breezes crept 

Above the grass like unseen messengers 

That whispered gossip sweet from flower to flower, 

A little girl I knew came up the path, 

Paused, and upon my invitation sat 

Beside me on the porch. In genial mood 

We whiled away a vagrant quarter-hour. 

She with the story of a dog named Jack, 

I with due recognition of Jack's worth. 

And this, done into rhyme, is what she said : 

I've got the nicest dog at home, 

We call him Jack — and, oh, 
When he can't go with me, you ought 

To see him want to go. 

He frisks about and won't keep still 

When I put on my hat. 
I made him stay at home today 

Because he chased a cat. 

He's got the cutest stumpy legs 

And little velvet ears, 
One day my papa made believe 

He'd snip them with the shears. 

My papa's awful nice and just 

As funny as can be ; 
He loves my mamma, and I guess 

He's fond of Jack and me. 



12 



And when Jack barks he says it's strange 

A dog should try to sing. 
Jack's got a tail curled up just like — 

Just like a napkin ring. 

Well, there comes Jack. I wonder how 

He ever did get here. 
Why, Jack, you couldn't make more fuss 

If I'd been gone a year. 

She gravely introduced him, and I took 

Jack's friendly paw, while in his eyes there glowed 

The mellow light of canine friendliness ; 

Called him good fellow, nor forgot to add 

A word of praise. And then, to my regret. 

Her playmates called her, and the maiden rose 

And said good-bye. But ere she went she pinned 

A dandelion blossom on my coat 

And, with the bland complaisance of a queen. 

Gave me a kiss because I praised her dog. 



13 



LITTLE BLINKTUM WINKTUM 

Little Blinktum Winktum has regal ways, 

The chubby, fat-fisted slip of a man ; 
He is Shah of a realm which he quaintly sways 

From his throne in the fireside Teheran. 

Over hill and dale he doth bravely ride 
On his fiery steed, the paternal knee, 

With all of a despot's reckless pride 

And a peacock's plume for a snickersnee. 

He is full of whims as becomes a Shah, 
And his thirst for adventure never slakes ; 

Now he wars on Grimalkin, and now the law 
Of the pantry his restless spirit breaks. 

He has taken a trip to Grandmother Town, 
Where the sweet-voiced woman sits and hums 

A song of the days when her hair was brown 

Ere she found the peace that with twilight comes. 

There in the corner she sits and tells 

(Lo, the Shah has ceased his barbaric noise) 

Of deep-voiced giants and elves in the dells, 
And of good and bad little girls and boys. 

With his head at rest on the kindly lap 

Of the dear old woman who spins him tales. 

The Shah at last has begun a nap 

As the lamps are lighted and twilight fails. 

And a giant comes and carefully lifts 

The form of the Shah of the Drowsy Head 

And bears him away, where the darkness drifts. 
To his royal rest in a truckle-bed. 



14 



LITTLE TINY TOES 

When the Shadow Giant 

Comes across the land, 
Dropping seeds of slumber 

From his dewy hand, 
Then the household darling, 

Little Tiny Toes, 
Cries in winning accents, 

As to bed she goes. 
Ere the slumber blossoms 

All about her creep : 
" Tum an' tiss me, mamma ; 

Den me'll go to s'eep." 

Pretty little sly-boots. 

Though she calmly lies. 
She's not always sleeping 

When she shuts her eyes. 
Mamma may have kissed her 

Many times before, 
Yet you'll hear her pleading. 

While her eyes once more 
Through half -lifted eyelids 

O'er the bedclothes peep : 
" Tum an' tiss me, mamma ; 

Den me'll go to s'eep.' ' 

So the household darling, 

Little Tiny Toes, 
Fights the Shadow Giant 

Ere she finds repose; 
As the tranquil twilight 

Slowly disappears. 
Pleads for good-night kisses. 

In the mother's ears 
Sweet, ah, sweet, the drowsy 

Nestling's parting cheep : 
" Tum an' tiss me, mamma ; 

Den me'll go to s'eep." 



SWEET REASONING 

On tiptoe, very wide awake, 

Drawn for a moment from her play, 
Watching grandmother frost a cake. 

Wee Mabel stood one day. 

A spell of pensive silence passed, 
When by a sudden impulse led, 
" My papa says I'm dwowing fast," 
With artless pride she said. 

Then pausing as the future glowed 
With promise in her childish view : 
" And, dwanma, when I get all dwowed. 
Then I can fwost cakes, too." 

Grandmother stooped, and with a kiss 

Mabel was folded to a breast 
Whose longings for her future bliss 

Love-moistened eyes expressed. 

" Dwanma," she murmured, nestling there, 
Her sense of fostering love complete, 

" I dess there's fwostin' on your hair 
Betause you are so sweet." 



jn 



THE NEW YEAR 

Oh, new-born year, the lives of years are fleeting. 
The farewell echo mocks too soon their greeting, 
Life's round in seeming emptiness completing. 

Yet age by age the circling earth has flourished, 

And man, by nature's genial forces nourished. 

Has thrived while gross and evil things have perished. 

Year, may your moments with the future blending 
See man, the tireless climber, still ascending. 
The ways of truth more clearly comprehending — 

See man, by needless strife less madly blinded. 
Still growing kinder hearted, broader minded ; 
Still less wrapped up in self, more open handed. 

May those who toil, in brotherhood combining, 
Maintain their rights, no faithless act designing ; 
Lead better lives in scorn of base repining. 

And may the strong from duty's path cease straying, 

The sacred trust of brotherhood betraying. 

For this, oh, new-born year, we're hoping, praying. 



17 



THE BELATED CHRISTMAS STORY 

Mr. Henrik Ibsen Ghostleigh would have scorned to break a 

rule 
Of the Psycho-Introspective-Morbid-Analytic School. 

He had written many novels, deep and sad and up to date, 
And at last he tried a Christmas tale, which seemed like 
tempting fate. 

"I will paint," he said, "ail Uncle, jovial, stout, and in his 
prime. 
Who returns with wealth unbounded from some far, mys- 
terious clime. 

" There shall be a Widowed Sister and her interesting brood, 
With three months of unpaid house rent and a scarcity of 
food. 

"And he shall return at Yuletide, just to please the girls and 
boys. 
With the house rent and provisions and a wagonload of toys. 

** But I'll skip the faults of Dickens, who scarce suits the mod- 
ern mood. 
With his mid- Victorian pathos and his methods often crude. 

" For a story is not finished, though its figures pass in shoals, 
If we fail to trace the movement of the clockwork of their 
souls." 

Then he started with the youngest, sweet, contented little 

Poll, 
Tracing back to ancient mollusks her affection for the doll. 



18 



And he showed how cheerful Tommy and good-natured little 

Jim 
Owed their overflow of spirits to the latest from the limb. 

And he found that restless Susie, with her knowing nods 

and winks, 
Was almost as tough a problem as the riddle of the Sphinx. 

In the Widow's older girls and boys, and in herself at last. 
He discovered traits that lingered from the Ghostland of the 
past. 

Then he made the long-lost Uncle ooze with kindness un- 
alloyed 

Which he traced with rare acumen back to sources anthro- 
poid. 

But the life-scroll of the Uncle was not easily unrolled 
And the merry chimes of Christmas found the story still 
untold. 

For he was a thorough artist, and he would not break a rule 
Of the Psycho-Introspective-Morbid-Analytic School. 

So those little helpless children nearly froze for want of coal, 
While Henry Ibsen Ghostleigh analyzed their Uncle's soul. 

And the gnawing pangs of hunger by no generous purse were 

stayed, 
And they got no Christmas presents and the house rent was 

unpaid. 

And when the tale was finished they were warmed by April's 

breath ; 
But the good old Christmas Uncle had been analyzed to 

death. 



19 



THE FEDERAL CITY 

Not like the marvel of a faery dawn 

From swamp and woodland this bright city rose. 

Yet to the magic of a dream it owes 

Its site sequestered. While the years pass on 

With some scant gain from war's hard tillage won, 

City of promise, still the hope of those 

Who cherish peace on earth, its beauty grows 

True to the fostering dream of Washington. 

In simple splendor like our flag unfurled, 

The white charm of the Hellenic past outdone, 

So may it stand, when men have learned to shun 

The hell of nation against nation hurled, 

Its structures fair uplifted in the sun 

To shed memorial radiance o'er the world. 



20 



WASHINGTON 

Facing the cloud wrack as the tempest brewed 

Prophetic impulse overmastered him 

And sealed his heart with strength. Beyond the dim, 

Wild dawn of freedom with sad heart he viewed 

The sacrificial torrent, crimson-hued ; 

But saw the land her torch of empire trim. 

And bent his mind, that would not brook their whim, 

To weigh the people's cause, and found it good. 

And when, full-orbed, from battle rose the State, 

They scarce could feel lie found their praises sweet 

And could but think that he'd dare question fate, 

So firm he stood, so coldly gracious — great 

In that sure way, dispelling base conceit. 

Which leads to power and fame by pathways straight. 



21 



JEFFERSON 

(April 2, 1743^uly 4, 1826) 

When overseas intolerance more and more 

Misprized the New World spirit, his the pen 

To give potential mutterings of men 

A vital meaning. From Columbia's shore 

The luminous mandate, christened with their gore, 

Lifted the night of kingly rule ; and when, 

In the strange, dazzling day that followed war, 

Marplots and weaklings threatened what was won, 

He shaped a steady course with craft to shun 

The snares and pitfalls set for patriots massed 

In yet untutored factions, till at last, 

The civic growth he cherished well begun, 

Cheered by the people's festal shouts, he passed. 

The Great Republic's greatest citizen. 



22 



SPRING IN MOUNT PLEASANT 

In the green of old oaks, of the poplar and maple, 
Of the lawns in their brightening array. 

On the verge of the city and bordered by woodland, 
Mount Pleasant is welcoming May. 

The calm of a village pervades the green vistas ; 

By a gateway a dog lies at rest ; 
On the porch sprawls a sun-drowsy cat ; the brisk robin 

Flies off with a worm to his nest. 

The soul of a song in the stir of soft breezes 

Foretells the ripe splendor of June, 
And down in the park caws a crow fitting darkly 

Where Piney is rippling the tune. 



23 



PINEY BRANCH 

With the murmurous music primeval 

Of creation aglow in the dark 
For ages unnumbered I rippled 

Ere the forest became a park. 

There were birds in the thickets that twittered ; 

There were blossoms on either bank ; 
There were insects to mimic my whisper ; 

The beast of the wild came and drank. 

And then came the prowling savage, 
With his sinuous, moccasined tread, 

And peopled the Hollow with spirits; 
In my voice heard a song of the dead. 

Till at last there were women and children, 
There were men from the growing town. 

To rejoice in the restful quiet 

Of the ways where I wandered down. 

They came with their joys and longings. 
With their dreams from the world apart, 

And the Hollow was consecrated 
In the warmth of the human heart. 

Then at last came the builders of houses 

With their eyes on the hillsides where, 
Down the green-tented dingle flowing. 
To the mothering creek I fare. 



24 



But statesmen proud of their City, 
With its splendor that is to be, 

In their dream of that City's future 
Caught the sound of my rippled plea. 

For the mystic charm of the wildwood 
No power of wealth can restore 

Though the coming generations 
Its loss may at last deplore. 

You may replace the columned mansion 
Or the marble shaft, but, alack, 

Not with millions piled on millions 

Can you bring your lost leafage back. 

So they stayed the encroaching menace 
Where the builders had threatened long 

To come with their bricks and mortar 
And extinguish my purling song. 

Having saved the creek for the people, 
They at length gave heed to the brook ; 

To the Park's rare beauty they added 
The charm of the sylvan nook. 

And in days to come glad thousands 
Will find the repose they seek 

Idling down by the shaded pathway 
To the bridge where I join the creek. 



25 



A VISITATION FROM THE HOLLOW 

The day is almost done; the porch 

Invites to dreamy smoking, 
And there my unfleshed spirit sits 

The joy of calm invoking. 

Beyond the lawn the treetops high 

Loom up from Piney Hollow, 
And as I view the darkening scene 

Strange are the sights that follow. 

From out the park, across the road, 
Upon the grass come trooping 

A woodland host. From every clime 
And age 'twould seem they're grouping. 

Behold ye, now, here comes a band 

Of Ireland's little people ; 
With roguish smiles and cudgel play 

In Celtic joy they leap all. 

Tiptoeing pixy dancers pass 
With movements gaily zestf ul ; 

A choir of echoes, lingering by, 
Sing ditties old and restful. 

From classic Greece and Rome appear 

The shrinking hamadryad, 
A satyr prancing o'er the turf, 

The supple nymph and naiad. 



2r) 



But while the show is at its best 

And interest is griping, 
A red-head leprechaun speaks up 

In words as follows, piping : 

* Heaven rest our friend. Still let him drowse, 

Scant thought on wealth bestowing. 
There's wealth aplenty in his dreams, 
I guess we'd best be going." 

With that the revelers seek the shade. 
Where fairy lamplight glimmers. 

While o'er the dark horizon yet 
Belated daylight shimmers. 

The grinning leprechaun goes last. 
With darts and swerves gymnastic. 

And leaves me wondering if his words 
Are kindly or sarcastic. 

But thus or so, I don't believe 

The only golden minute 
(As those there are who seem to think) 

Is one with dollars in it. 

And it were well, I think, if men 
Such tales as this could swallow 

And now and then with unfleshed souls 
See things in Piney Hollow. 



27 



PINEY'S NIGHT SONG 

When shadows haunt the hollow, 
When night has followed day, 

Beneath the stars that twinkle 
I tinkle down the way — 

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 
I tinkle down the way. 

With darkness all about me 

My music is not sad, 
But as I faintly tinkle 

The whispering leaves grow glad- 
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, 

The whispering leaves grow glad. 

A breeze with dewy fingers 
Touches the leaves, and soon 

In softly answering cadence 
They join my tinkling tune — 

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
They join my tinkling tune. 

Tired mortal leave the city. 

The noises made by men. 
And in my liquid tinkle 

Hear nature's voice again — 
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 

Hear nature's voice again. 

For youth is still the portion 
Of hearts in tune to stray 
Where voicing dreamy gladness 
I tinkle down the way — 
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. 
Beneath the stars that twinkle 
Responsive to my lay. 



28 



THE VOICE OF PEACE 

Oh, man, why shouldst thou turn aside 

To woo my sister War, 
When I would gladly be thy bride, 

Thy faithful comforter. 

And is it love of fitful fame 

That kindles thy desire ? 
Ah, she will fill thy heart with flame, 

Thy veins with wasteful fire. 

Those lips grow vocal with despair 
By my swart sister kissed ; 

The masses of her tangled hair 
Are dank with bloody mist. 

Nor is it true that manhood springs 
From battle-harrowed soil; 

That honor loves to trail her wings 
Where death repays thy toil. 

Ah, give not heed unto the lie, 
Howe'er it make thee thrill ; 

Though it be brave to nobly die. 
It is not brave to kill. 

So count of human strife the cost, 

And let me sing to thee 
Till senseless pride is bravely lost 

In high humility. 



29 



THE POET 

Bound in chains of contemplation 

Broods the poet long; 
Broods on future world-progression 
Till his thoughts begin to freshen 

Into golden song. 

Many-mooded though his heart is — 
With all passion fraught — 

By the fireside, where the mart is, 

In all places, love a part is 
Of what he has taught. 

Came the poet, child of gladness, 

When the world was young. 
Soothing life's untutored madness, 
And unto the voice of sadness 
Gave a sweeter tongue — 

Blending music with the grinding 

Of the wheels of life, 
And with saintly eyesight finding 
Beauty even mid the blinding 

Storms of human strife. 

Till at last he sadly pauses 

In life's brighter beams, 
Awed by care and care's grim causes, 
Deafer to the world's applauses. 

Dreaming hopeful dreams — 

Dreams of truth's triumphal ditties, 

Dreams of regions where 
None so base but gently pities. 
In the many-hearted cities, 

Strugglers with despair; 



30 



Dreams of heroes calm and scarless, 

Simplifying life ; 
Dreams of nations grand but warless, 
Passing from the chill and starless 

Night of human strife. 

So to kindle and to cherish 

In the human heart 
Flames of thought less gross and garish, 
Making vileness shrink and perish, 

Is his special part. 

And his song, however subtle, 

More than joy can give. 
Is not wholly false and futile, 
If some part of instincts brutal 

Thereby cease to live. 



31 



THE CLIMBERS 

I see the climbers of the massive-rocked 

And dragon-haunted 
Ledges and cHffs where, by Hope's phantoms mocked 

And tempest-shocked, 

They stand undaunted. 

Who are these kings of isolated heights 

Where fame is blended 
With rest? Who are these great-browed eremites 

Of thought whose fights 

With Fate are ended ? 

Who these calm listeners to the tempest-screams 

Of Fate defeated. 
That through the splendor of their battle-dreams 

Behold the gleams 

Of toil completed? 

Earth, who are your sons that mount and stand 

Upon the verges 
Of rugged cliffs where, rising o'er the land, 

The mountain grand 

With cloudland merges? 

Who are these restless knights that make no truce 

With fiend or dragon. 
And toiling skyward, deem of little use 

The grape's sweet juice 

In pleasure's flagon? 



32 



What birthright of nobihty have they, 

With strong Hmbs crushing 
Beneath their feet the trials of today 

Ere morning's gray 

With hope is flushing ? 

Has Fame, the giantess of tale and song, 

Her temple portals 
At last thrown open to the common throng? 

Dare she thus wrong 

The great immortals ? 

Ask him who stands where glow the cliffs with chill 

Heroic beauty. 
And he will say, "By right of brain and will 

I toiled until 

The voice of Duty, 

Gathering sweetness as it floated down 

The brightening gorges, 
Said : " Lo ! now mayst thou wear, to soothe my frown 

The iron crown 

Ambition forges ! '" 



33 



THE SONG OF FREEDOM 

I was born in the brain of the poet 

In the days when the earth was young; 

In the days ere men with the silent pen 
Supplanted the minstrel's tongue. 

In the days when the earth was noisy 
With the discord her children wrought ; 

When her youthful pulse beat out results 
Unchecked by the touch of thought. 

Seek, but you can not find it, 

Seek, but you seek in vain, 
For the far-off time when in throes of rhyme 

I sprang from the poet's brain. 

My pinions have been bedraggled 

In the red dew of war's night. 
And many a crown has been trampled down 

Since I began my flight. 

Sowing the seeds of progress 

I have crouched in the shadow of thrones ; 
And I fain would change into warlike strains 

The music of slavish groans. 



34 



I have cried o'er the house of bondage 

To the people, " Awake, awake." 
And amidst his power in that fateful hour 

I have seen the tyrant quake. 

Ever I sweetly whisper 

To the heroes within my fold, 
And ever I frown on the shifty clown 

Who is won by the lure of gold. 

Ever I stand and beckon 

And point to the land of rest. 
Where never the throb of a slavish sob 

Shall rise in the human breast. 

Ah, many a laggard aeon 

Shall creep o'er the path of Time, 

Ere my toil shall end and all heart throbs blend 
Like the flow of a matchless rhyme. 



35 



THE DREAMER'S HEART 

Source of man's upward striving, 
Yet viewless to sordid eyes, 

Lost in the heart of the Dreamer 
The secret of beauty hes ; 

And the Dreamer can hardly find it, 
And it dies if the Dreamer dies. 

Lo, it fills his heart with the gladness 
Of emotions at war with wrong, 

That in part are the dower of manhood 
And in part to youth belong ; 

And there lie the deeps unf athomed 
Of the silence that is song. 



S6 



THE CHILD OF ART 

The child of art, his fate seems hard ; 

The sacred debt which he has laid 
Upon the world is by the world 

In worldly wealth but poorly paid. 

Even at the best, half understood 
He stands ashiver in the cold 

Of patronizing smiles, and yearns 
For sympathy mid showers of gold. 

With weary heart and eager brain 
Forever striving toward the best, 

The grandest outburst of his song 
Is but a vision of unrest. 

The chiseled stone or painted scene. 
Which ever holds the world apart 

From care an instant, does but mock 
What glowed within his fervid heart. 

Yet on, still on, through mortal years. 
O'er heights by ceaseless effort gained, 

He seeks with strange unbending pride 
The beautiful, the unattained. 



37 



HERO PAINTING 

What matter whether eyes of brown or blue 

Or eyes of gray 
Lit up his face ? What matter if a frown 

King-like upon it lay ? 

What matter if he dressed with seemly care 

And with calm grace 
Could win a lady's " Thank you," or a name 

Back through the past could trace ? 

Such touches truly lend a softer glow 

To portraiture 
Of him whose entity the jailor Time 

Strives vainly to immure. 

Useful accessories are they no doubt ; 

But what he did — 
His triumph over self, his war for truth — 

Is what must not be hid. 

And if he stooped to soothe the wretchedness 

Of hearts that bleed. 
And pitied deeper than his words could reach, 

That matters much indeed. 



38 



And much it matters if he proudly dared 

To speak his mind 
When men in fury strove to damn the truth, 

With brainless passion blind. 

But most it matters if he toiled in vain 

Through lonely years, 
Heart sick, and yet at last achieving fame 

Despite the cold world's sneers. 

Oh, you who linger in the night of toil 

And long for day, 
Take heart — the grandest hero is the man 

Of whom the world shall say 

That from the roadside of defeat he plucked 

The flower success, 
Bravely and with a modesty sublime, 

Not with blind eagerness. 



39 



A WOMAN 

She bore with saintly strength o'er life's rough highways 

The awful burden of a tender heart 

And ever found contentment's brightest byways 

There where her smile might soothe some human smart. 

For her love glowed in deeds that vitalized it, 

Not less the house plant prim than wayside bloom ; 

Duty in love that warmed and humanized it 

With such high splendor as dispels its primal gloom. 



She lived her life in hopefulness of spirit ; 

She loved the beautiful, the good, the true ; 

Prized lofty aims not more than lowly merit 

That stoops the grand small tasks of life to do — 

Conquering self, with scarce a murmur holding 

Her soul at rest mid mortal griefs and jars 

Until the light her presence calm enfolding 

Shone with the sweet quiescent grandeur of the stars. 



40 



A LIFE 

A young man stood where two roads met, 
And one went up and the other down ; 

And his lips were in battle-firmness set, 

And his face was fair and his hair was brown. 

And he almost sobbed, " 'Tis the hour — the hour. 

Farewell to youth ; I must choose the road." 
And stooping to pluck a wayside flower, 

With a mighty effort he upward strode. 

And at last on a hilltop stood a seer 
Benignly strong and supremely mild, 

Whose life was a story of toil severe ; 

And his hair was gray, but his brave lips smiled. 



41 



TOIL 

Alas, for the young hearts awaking 

To the hopes and the sin and the breaking 

And the prodigal tears 

Of the burdensome years 
That glow bright in the future with promise ? 
Alas, that the dreams which we cherish 
In the fires of fruition should perish — 

That it darkens the sun 

When the real is won 
And we banish the ideal from us. 

The story is ever repeated 

Of Youth's aspirations defeated. 

We battle and dream 

Of achievement supreme; 
But, ah, the deceitful tomorrow 
Is forever its promise belying 
And the tear-drops forever are drying 

On hope's fallen leaves 

Where humanity grieves, 
Clad about with the mantle of sorrow. 

The goal where we thought that the burden 
Would fall and the coveted guerdon 

Of rest would be found 

Is the desolate bound 
Where a demon of restless endeavor 
Rises up in the bosom to taunt us 
With tasks that still lure us and daunt us, 

Till we turn once again 

To the battle with men 
In the glare of the pitiless Never. 



42 



Aye ; but labor is manfully human. 
Toil, toil, is the test of a true man. 

Though success yield him light. 

Though he reel in the fight, 
Though his pathway be sunless and dreary, 
Still he feels for his burden-bent brothers, 
And shrinks from the baseness that smothers 

The feeling divine 

Of the heart-throb benign 
That would hold up the hands of the weary. 



43 



THE DERELICT 

He was human — therefore weep — 
Human, foul wth mortal grime ; 

One perhaps of those who reap 
Failure from desires sublime. 

Wreck of what was once a man, 

Scarred and battered, meanly dressed, 

From his name death lifts the ban. 
He was human ; let him rest. 

He was human. Though he seemed 

Heedless of the ills of life, 
Who shall say he never dreamed 

Of relief from storm and strife ? 

There are souls that long to clutch 
What is best of earthly things. 

But to droop beneath the touch 
Of defeat's benumbing stings — 

Souls aspirant, yet too weak 
With the rugged world to cope ; 

Souls with thoughts they fail to speak ; 
Souls that are the graves of hope. 

So perhaps the slumberer there 
Nursed ambitions in his breast 

Which o'erleaped his strength to dare. 
He was human ; let him rest. 



4« 



CHANTICLEER IN URBIS 

Stately rooster, staunch and sturdy, 

It would melt old Pan to pity 
But thy careless crowing heard he 

In the great unfriendly city. 

Where is cause for all thy crowing. 
Dreary walls of brick defying? 

Wert thou but a whit more knowing 
Thou wouldst fit thyself for dying. 

Dost thou think some crimson-crested, 
Feather-mailed knight will hear thee, 

Who thy strength has never tested. 
And with doughty strut will near thee ? 

Dost thou think again to battle 

On a chicken's field of glory. 
Where thy shapely spurs shall rattle 

On thy rival's pinions gory ? 

Thou has seen thy last of freedom ; 

All thy wives another follow. 
Ah, how proudly thou didst lead 'em, 

Scratching worms for them to swallow. 



46 



THE CLOUD AND THE STAR 



I saw at night a cloud, lone, somber, float 
Across a field of sky lit by one star. 

The star, a steely point, seemed too remote 
To stir such hearts as those of mortals are. 



On moved the cloud. The star quiescent shone, 

Till, floating free, a fleecy fringe of mist 
Diffused its light, then wavered, then was gone. 

Then, as I looked, by sudden radiance kissed. 
The cloud grew luminous where from afar. 

Like gold within a flower cup all abloom. 
The light gleamed through its darkness ; and the star 

Glowed softly in its gilded veil of gloom. 



And so, I thought, the star of progress yet 
(Which still too coldly glimmers in the night) 

Shall in dark souls a generous warmth beget 
And glow with love's unconquerable light. 



46 



A WINTER SUNSET 

Beneath the dusky crimson of the west 
Like a Titanic statue sleeps the earth. 

With shifting Hghts and shadows nature strives 
To show her children how a song has birth. 

They feel within them, as they gaze, the pulse 
Of lyric tenderness that supervenes 

To life's realities when poets sing. 

Lo, now they know what inspiration means. 

And though they voice not what the soul has felt, 
Yet do they nourish therewithin the seed 

Of higher beauty than has often been 

From thence transplanted at a poet's need. 

Behold, the wintry glory, scarcely dimmed. 
Beneath the gathering darkness lingers far 

Too wild for perfect beauty were it not 

Tinged with the cold, clear radiance of a star. 

Lingers, with fast-augmenting weirdness, till 
The perfect somber touch of night completes 

A picture rich in calm, Greek splendor such 
As wrought sweet magic in the soul of Keats. 



47 



ICHTHYORIA 

Let others sing in rhymes of might 
Of nation's grand that grandly fight, 
Mine is a simple song of peace, 
Song of the land of joy's increase — 
The land of Ichthyoria : 
No tumult there to worry you. 

No worldly lure in its appeal. 

The magic of the rod and reel 

Which youth's forgotten glow restores. 

The welcome of the great outdoors. 

Combine in Ichthyoria 

To banish thoughts that worry you. 

From mountain slope to surging tide 

In simple-hearted calm abide, 

By brook, creek, river, lake, and sea. 

Bronzed by the sun, clear-eyed, care-free, 

The sons of Ichthyoria 

Where there is nought to worry you. 

Go seek it you who've tarried long 
Restless amid the city throng, 
The land of soothing voices mild, 
The restful voices of the wild — 
Linger in Ichthyoria: 
No striving there to worry you. 



4S 



It is the land of May and June, 

Of whispering leaf and ripple tune, 

Of pathways cool by glimmering streams, 

A land of rest and idle dreams — 

The land of Ichthyoria, 

With nothing there to worry you. 

It is a land of summer skies. 

Of autumn tints when summer dies. 

The land of fishing, land of days 

Enchanted, land of brookside ways — 

The land of Ichthyoria : 

No discord there to worry you. 

There, giving fretful care the slip. 
You meet a merry fellowship ; 
Far from the din of mortal strife 
Grow strong again, the joy of life 
Renewed in Ichthyoria, 
And nothing there to worry you. 



" SWEET " 

Queen word of all the tender words 

With which the poets strive 
In sordid breasts to keep some spark 

Of sentiment alive ! 

Clad in thy rare simplicity, 

No pen can do thee wrong ; 
So pardon him who makes thee here 

The subject of a song. 

By man forgotten are the ways 
Whence thou hast wandered down 

At last upon thy stainless brow 
To wear the verbal crown. 

About thee still the quaintnesses 

Of old Dan Chaucer cling, 
Queen word of all the tender words 

With which the poets sing. 

Thine absence would have marred the songs 

That even Shakspere made, 
And Milton's splendor could not spare 

Thy dainty masquerade. 

Burns, Byron, Wordsworth honor thee 

In acts of vassalage ; 
And yet thou dost not scorn to grace 

The humblest rhymer's page. 

The orator has little need 

For such a word as thou, 
Who seeks to wear a civic crown 

Upon his storm-beat brow. 



50 



And scientific men must toil 

Without thy lovely smile 
To brighten up the pages where 

They hope to live awhile. 

But sure the lover's debt to thee 

Is seldom fully paid, 
When with a pen of rhyme he woos 

Some shy and artless maid. 

For if he sings in stilted phrase, 

" My heart is at thy feet," 
And seeks to paint her with a word, 

What epithet like " sweet." 

And when some master of deep thought, 

Humbled by earthly smarts. 
Strives tenderly to sing such songs 

As live in weary hearts. 

Then better is thy simple strength 

Than that of cunning words 
Which call to mind life's storm and strife 

As thou the song of birds. 

Oh, thou art still love's choicest word 

Of tender blandishment, 
And with thy throne in books of song 

Well mayest thou be content. 



51 



THE WHISTLING WIND 

O'er frosty eaves the whistling wind 
Wrestles with furious shapes of snow, 

While at each door and window dinned 
His menace shrill is heard below. 

But they who seek the fireside nook, 
Where none the wintry clamor dreads. 

Hear echoes still of bird and brook. 

And fair the leafless landscape spreads. 

And thus the soul by love kept warm. 
When all around seems desolate. 

Hears kindly voices through the storm 
Despite the whistling wind of fate. 



52 



DAYBREAK 

There's a stir of the shadows that bound the wheat, 

In the forest a sound as of squirrels' feet ; 

An eerie murmur is faintly heard 

(Half lost in the twitter of a bird), 

Like the slow retreat of an elfin host 

Grown blind in the gathering light almost. 

Then, smothered in distance, faintly fall 

The strident notes of a rooster's call. 

The fold grows vocal ; from sleep unloosed. 

With a muffled flutter, fowls drop from roost ; 

And off in the pasture the spectral cows 

One after another begin to browse ; 

And a farmer's boy, 'neath the half -quenched stars. 

At the end of the lane lets down the bars. 

While a weird glow mottles the woodland tarns 

And the swallows flit from the grim, gray barns. 

Then up full-breasted arises the morn. 
And the night wind dies in a rustle of corn. 



53 



LOVE'S MESSAGE 

In vain in its fullness he strives to express it, 

The longing that fills and makes song in his heart. 

Love dawns in its splendor. How shall he confess it ? 
How make it of life's gracious music a part ? 

Such wonder of song ; he grows faint in his yearning 
To reach the pure height whence it trembles and flows. 

But the stars in their courses its incense are burning, 
And all the glad night with its melody glows. 

Oh, he can not sing it. Yet in its completeness 
By all kindly spirits the song shall be sung. 

Till it fills her soft eyes with love's answering sweetness. 
And the swell of its music shall quicken her tongue. 

For the generous earth in his passion rejoices. 
And the fair face of dawn flushes soft in its flame. 

Lo, all nature is stirred by a murmur of voices 
That sing it, the song lily-sweet with her name. 

Oh, the spring shall be filled with it ; summer shall sing it 
In passing of breezes and ripple of stream ; 

And home to her heart purple autumn shall bring it ; 
And winter's clear voices shall make it their theme. 

In the sun-glow of noon shall the thrill of it bind her, 
And its tenderness live in eve's wavering beams ; 

In the red rose's breath shall its cadences find her. 
And make his hope heard in night's temple of dreams. 

From his heart to her heart the wild bird-song shall bear it ; 

In the rhyme of all poets its glory shall dwell. 
Oh, he can not sing it, and yet she shall hear it. 

And tremble and weep and grow glad in its spell. 



54 



THE YOUNG MAN'S PLAINT 

Oh, tender-eyed darling, 

Now why are you snarling 
The soft skeins of love with your worrisome frown ? 

From heights of displeasure, 

My dear one, my treasure, 
To the lowland of love come, in pity come down. 

Alas, but your frowning 

Has wrought the uncrowning 
Of the joy that was throned in my heart for a day. 

Let the darkness of scorning 

Be lost in life's morning ; 
Softly voice once again love's " Forever and aye." 

Could I but rise to you 

From depths whence I view you. 

My dear one, my darling, your tenderness sure 
Would keep and uphold me 
Though fate should enfold me 

In its uttermost shadows, still strong to endure. 

Ah, you sit there so sweetly 

I can not completely 
Forego the mad nonsense of playing love's fool. 

Can it be they speak truly 

Who say I'll learn duly 
That love is a passion which manhood can school ? 



55 



HIS FAIRY 

A neat little, sweet little girl is she ; 
As purely complete as a pearl is she ; 

And her eyes warmly lighten 

Like dawn's rays that brighten 

O'er mariners lost, 

Sadly drifted and tossed 
Through the night on the wastes of a desolate sea. 

A rare little, fair little maid is she ; 
Beyond all compare, truth-arrayed, is she ; 

And but to behold her 

Makes high hopes that smoulder. 

Youth-hid in the soul 

When it aimed at a goal, 
Glow again with the warmth of true manhood to be. 

Oh, a mere little, dear little sprite is she ; 
Like a star shining clear in the night is she. 

When strong resolves weaken, 

A love-litten beacon 

To strengthen and guide 

Over life's misty tide. 
Is the smile of this dear little maiden to me. 



56 



LITTLE SLIPPERS 

Little Slippers, come and sit with me, 

Here in the firelight gleaming. 
Give o'er the rythm of needle and thread ; 

Twilight provokes to dreaming. 
Cheerily side by side we'll stay 

Here in the fireside weather. 
Though drearily tree branch and shadow sway 

Out in the night together. 

Little Slippers, sit down with me 

And talk of our early loving ; 
Twilight never was meant to heed 

The impatient clock's reproving. 
Hopefully then I dared to think 

Of a possible future wedding ; 
And cheerfully now in my arms you sink, 

And fond are the tears you are shedding. 

In the sweet glory of household calm, 

Lovingly twilight hearted, 
Little Slippers, the hours we spend. 

Are dearer than those departed ; 
Dearer than ever the looks that tell 

Of the wife-love in you glowing. 
And nearer than ever are hearts that swell 

At the sound of a baby crowing. 



57 



UNDER THE STARS 

Sing me a song of the May time ; 

Sing me a song of love — 
Not to be sung in the daytime, 

But at night with the stars above. 
Let each note soft and tender 

Like a fond sweet sigh depart ; 
Sing in the night's dark splendor, 

Oh, sing me a song of the heart. 

Under the stars, love, 

Let the guitars, love. 
Join in a song of the heart. 

Sweet the refrain, love, 

Sing, sing again, love. 
Oh, sing me a song of the heart. 

Sing me a song of the dove time ; 

Sing me a song of May ; 
Sing me a song of the love time 

After the close of the day. 
When all the stars are lighted, 

Then let the music start ; 
Sing of the vow we plighted. 

Oh, sing me a song of the heart. 



6S 



THE FAIREST 

Fair as the flowers that are fairest ; 

Aye, fairer than they ; 
Aglow with the beauty of night 

And the splendor of day. 

In her eyes is the glow of the brightest 

Sweet dream-day of June ; 
In her voice the low song of the brook 

When the summer's in tune. 

Brightening earth with the gladness 

Of a heart without guile, 
Sunshine and starlight are blent 

In the warmth of her smile. 



59 



HAND IN HAND 

Before our pathways met, dear, 

True joy we did not know; 
Now we have no regret, dear. 

As hand in hand we go. 

The glad stars of the night, dear, 

Smile with a softer glow, 
And day with hope is bright, dear, 

As hand in hand we go. 

Through years of good or ill, dear, 
Through years of joy or woe. 

Love will enfold us still, dear. 
As hand in hand we go. 

When youth at last departs, dear, 

And cold the breezes blow. 
Love's clasp will warm our hearts, dear, 

As hand in hand we go. 



60 



THE STOIC 

Of thoughtful mein, deep-eyed, broad-browed, 

Joy dungeoned in his heart, 
From all the lights and shades of life 

He kept himself apart. 

The rose's blush, the thrill of song, 
The child's laugh moved him not ; 

The friend that died but yesterday 
Today was all forgot. 

Men viewed him half with awe and half 

With bitter, world-wise sneers ; 
He ridiculed their joy and scorned 

Their sorrow-salted tears. 

He might have grasped a lordly prize 

Of thought or worldly power ; 
Have plucked from Fame's reluctant hand 

The bright consummate flower. 

And yet he bent to servile tasks 

A will supreme. He died 
Still cloaked in dark humility. 

So proud he hid his pride. 



fi) 



THE ANVIL OF THE HEART 

No work of thought is ever brought 

Into the perfect form 
That is not with suggestions fraught 

Of pulse-throbs warm. 

In camp and mart and realms of art 

What lingers from the past 
Upon the anvil of the heart 

Was welded fast. 

When warriors grim first learned to trim 
Thought's lamp mid shout and clang, 

While yet the eyes of Hope were dim, 
That anvil rang. 

The bard whose word grew warm and stirred, 

By battlement and moat, 
The oppressed to conflict long deferred. 

There grandly smote. 

Old heroes strong who hated wrong 

And lifted honor high, 
Amidst the strains of Freedom's song. 

Have wrought thereby — 

Have with stern pride thereby defied 

The brutal sway of brawn 
And swords by which swart Error died 

Have forged thereon. 



62 



Climbers who creep from steep to steep, 

Dispelling human fear, 
And rouse earth's sleepers from their sleep 

With words of cheer — 

Who from man's face would drive all trace 

Of man-implanted woe. 
The brave torch-bearers of the race, 

Have made it glow. 

Still in the murk where evils lurk. 
With blow and song and shout. 

These are such worthies as must work 
Earth's lessons out — 

Still from the mart must stand apart. 

Stout smiths of destiny. 
And smite the anvil of the heart 

Incessantly. 



63 



PROGRESS 

The artist man forever toils 

With tired hands that may not rest, 

And still the grand ideal dwells 
Crude and unchiseled in his breast. 

Some demon puts his thoughts awry, 

And, lo, before he is aware. 
With art's sweet promise in his ear, 

His hand has wrought the statue Care — 

A thing with cruel lips that mock 

What trace of his ideal he 
May hope to find half marble-hid 

Beneath its sordid symmetry. 

And yet he ever toils, and dreams 

That some day bootless toil shall cease. 

Oh, wondrous time, when man may call 
The product of his labor Peace. 



64 



LOST CHILDHOOD 

I seek but can not find the land of wonder, 

Where golden eyes looked on me from the sky, 

Nor can I pluck again the rare fresh blossoms 
A child plucks, won by beauty, thoughtless why. 

My heart is weary. Though the future wooed me 
With friendly kisses, I would pass her by. 

Could I but find again that land of wonder 

Whose golden stars smiled on me from the sky. 

The flowers I gather now I know will wither ; 

Too well I see the blights that on them lie. 
I can not pluck again the rare fresh blossoms 

A child plucks, won by beauty, thoughtless why. 



65 



THE UNSHAKEN STATE 

How from time's menace shall we guard the land ? 

Empires that crafty pontiffs built to stand 

By right divine have left a heritage 

Of strife, what time forgotten dreamers scanned 

The future, saying, " Nations that achieve 

Fixed greatness must to toil fair largess give." 

Whereat the regnant warlord loosed his rage, 

And those strange dreamers, while the law-giving sage 

Looked wise and droned his tedious negative. 

Were silenced. Yet effulgent lives their dream, 

And those still build in vain who fail to gauge 

The deadening stress of toil that brings no gleam 

To darkened lives ; who miss the strength supreme 

Of growth firm-founded in the workman's wage. 



66 



HOW TO BE THANKFUL 

Be thankful if a day well spent 

Even in lowliest work 
Has taught how best to meet the cares 

That in life's pathway lurk. 

Be thankful for the friendship tried 
You think no storm can shake ; 

Be thankful for the enemies 
That you have failed to make. 

Be thankful if, as years go by, 

With higher aims you live. 
And in stern duty's service find 

That you have thanks to give. 

Be thankful if your heart still feels 
Some thrill of youthful joy ; 

If manhood has not left behind 
The simple-minded boy. 

Be thankful for the kindly deeds 
That give you pleasure still — 

For kindly thoughts that in your breast 
No frost of time can kill. 

If with such thankfulness as this 

Your soul you can't uplift. 
And only feel the overfed, 

Cold thankfulness of thrift — 

Why, then, be thankful you have time 

To profit by this verse; 
In short, give thanks you're not so bad 

That you can not be worse. 



67 



FLY-LEAF VERSES 



SHAKSPERE 



Mirrored within these pages bravely throng 

Shapes of a dying past at parting ways, 
The cheery fife-notes of prophetic song 

Shrilling above the din of strenuous days. 

The page, the clown, the maid, the buxom lass. 

The swaggering man-at-arms, the knight, the squire, 

Loom lifelike in the pageant as they pass ; 
Here sings the cricket by the winter fire. 

On windy wastes at night are heard strange cries ; 

A throneless king lacks shelter in the storm ; 
Swords clash; the jester sings. With steadfast eyes 

Through all benignant moves the master's form. 

MILTON 

Oh, sad, blind, dauntless Milton, how in thee 

Life's gloom and glory must have blent ! How strong 

The mortal tempests must have been that swept 
Across the welkin of thy night of song ! 

GOLDSMITH 

Goldsmith, the homeless, once with smiles at fate 
And kindly deeds made sport of frowning care : 

Now in a book he lives in princely state 

And entertains the world with priceless fare. 



OS 



BURNS 



Ah, me, how sadly fancy turns 
From these sweet revels of his pen 

To taverns where immortal Burns 
Caroused at night with clayey men. 

BYRON 

That soul but vainly strives to simulate 

Poetic splendor or poetic balm 
In which life's wintry storms do not precede 

The magic warmth of art's creative calm. 

Ah, sure, no rhymer unimpassionate, 

No soul untroubled by life's quickening jars, 

Shall ever stand where Byron with a pen 
Of fire translates the gossip of the stars. 

MOORE 

He touched the ancient harp so that it spoke 
With Celtic clearness, simple, tender, strong, 

And while the world from worldly dreams awoke, 
Sad Erin smiled again mid flowers of song. 

HOOD 

When mild-eyed care and bright-eyed mirth 

As with one voice together sing, 
The wide world pauses from its toil 

To listen to the caroling. 



69 



MRS. BROWNING 



Here shall the soul find sustenance divine, 
The rare, fresh fruitage of a woman's heart 

Who looked on misery with a sad, benign 

Smile at the thought that she might ease its smart. 



TENNYSON 



The glow of passion made this poet's soul 
Expand in beauty like a sun-kissed flower. 

While with his eyes fixed on life's highest goal 
He sang serenely conscious of his power. 



POE 



How we could from the poet's harp divine 

Strike sounds that into measured language melt, 

If we, forsooth, might simply touch the shrine 
Where this sad worshipper of beauty knelt. 



LONGFELItOW 



No hot, Byronic tear-drops sear thy heart ; 

But, ah, we find upon thy saintly scroll 
Tear-stains of manly tenderness. Thou art 

The high priest of the temple of the soul. 



WHITTIER 



As tender is his voice who carols here 
(Whene'er he ceases for a cause to fight) 

And silvery sweet as 'twere some splendid flower 
Grown musically vocal in the night. 



70 



Points of View 



71 



FATALISM 

What is man who shrinks from death ? 

Just a fleeting spark of time, 
Burned to ashes in a breath, 

Seeking virtue, drawn to crime. 
Virtue, born of fears and hopes. 

Sop to charm some lurking wrath ; 
Crime, a grisly thing that gropes 

With pain's menace in his path. 

This is man, his senses dull. 

While he counts what he has done, 
To the end inscrutable 

That makes crime and virtue one ; 
Moved and mastered by a power 

That he can not comprehend ; 
Restless puppet, for an hour 

Working toward a hidden end. 

Yet he gives hope's anthem flight, 

Winged for the remotest star, 
Till he thinks his little light 

Center of the things that are ; 
Blind to causes reaching back, 

Chains that bind him to the past ; 
Keeping his predestined track 

By life's riddle unharassed. 

And the cycles come and go, 

Fraught he knows not with what doom, 
Whether great with joy or woe, 

Light supreme or endless gloom. 
By a power beyond his ken 

Driven in clouds of fiery chaff. 
All his sum of wisdom, then, 

Were to neither weep nor laugh. 



73 



THE CRY OF THE DEFEATED 

With a sigh for the light that has vanished, 
For the hght with which youth was o'ercast, 

Lo, I stand in a purposeless present 
And gaze on the future aghast. 

The cause — ah, the cause — who can find it ? 

What hell spark that slept in the brain 
Made the dream and the hope, the aspiring. 

Yield but fruitage of passion and pain? 

When I leaned on the breast of my mother 
And vowed to make goodness my goal, 

Wept to think of the evil that menaced, 
Was the cause lurking then in my soul ? 

Did it spring from a fountain ancestral ? 

Was the spirit dragged down by the flesh ? 
Did the stars that shone bright in hope's heaven 

Blind my eyes to the sins that enmesh ? 

Whose the blame ? Is it mine ? Am I victim 
Of the pulse beats that made me aspire? 

Did my heart glow with song in the morning 
But to perish at last in its fire? 

All in vain ; none can tell why men falter 
And miss the full fruitage of life. 

Ask him who aspired in his dreaming 
To ban the world's discord and strife. 

And you with the tongue that condemns me — 
Do you come with a message divine ? 

Or do you but seek to dissemble 

Your shortcomings in censure of mine ? 

It is true that my days have been barren — 
That my pathway is dreary and lone. 

But why should you tire me with precepts ? 
Is the soul of man not his own ? 

Did God give you breath but to waste it — 
Give you wealth to be hid from His view ? 

Fool, see that your breath in His balance 
Outweigh not the things that you do. 

74 



I have failed. What of that ? Mine the ruin ? 

Nay ; let him mouth that falsehood who can. 
For I know that the failure strikes deeper — 

That in me fails the striving of man. 

He has made a stout servant of matter ; 

Steam, the flame of the cloud do his will. 
But they fail where he sees the far splendor 

Of ideals that beckon him still. 

Still pursuing a phantom of glory, 

The thrill of red combat he feels 
And dreams he hears music of progress 

In an impotent spinning of wheels. 

Blind fool, still to think the world's welfare 

Lies alone in mere seeking of pelf. 
That has lifted, but love must yet lift him 

From the dreary dead level of self. 

Not love with the hand of a miser 

Made the gift of a few to the few ; 
But love touching everything human. 

Creeds, customs, with radiance new — 

Must vivify laws, institutions. 

Unstinted, world-wide in its sweep. 
Or, undone by his own sordid scheming, 

Where but lately he strode man must creep. 

For the progress he boasts will slip backward 

If self still in self find its meed — 
If the Christ whom he crucifies daily 

Live not in the heart of the deed. 

Waste of breath ; soul is weighed down by matter, 
And the flesh by the spirit is worn. 

Night has always o'ershadowed the human ; 
The divine faintly gleams in its morn. 

And I dream not — aspire not. No longer 
Is my heart by hope's melody stirred. 

Death in life is my portion. What boots it ? 
What am I that my voice should be heard ? 

75 



A SERMON FOR CYNICS 



In the sun's glow the hairy cave man saw 
Now good unbounded, now a baleful eye ; 

Noted but when they fell, in brutish awe. 
The stars on high. 



In sullen rage against his brother man 

With tooth and tiger hand and club he fought. 

Then came the chief who with his ruthless clan 
For progress wrought. 



The selfish tyrant, building up a state. 

Made broader still the bond of brotherhood ; 

Then he who sought, with sword unstained by hate, 
The common good. 



So on from age to age, from clime to clime, 
For war's red spoil heroic gamesters diced, 

Progressing slowly to the appointed time — 
And then the Christ : 



Christ with the soul of progress in His life, 
The music in His heart, upon His tongue 

Words of a song at length to banish strife, 
By nations sung : 



76 



The song of love which gave to beauty birth 

And wakes through beauty what is best in men ; 

Which in the bards and sages of old earth 
Found tongue and pen. 



'Tis true like-hearted peoples stand apart 
In the unholy pride of court and camp; 

Still sounds the wolfish discord of the mart, 
The warrior's tramp. 



Yet men no more in bestial fury fight 
Meeting as strangers in the wilderness, 

But moved by civic ardor seek the light 
Through storm and stress. 



The wand of beauty, vibrant with the thrill 
Of hearts uplifted ir. love's later beams 

To duty's summit, stirs the dreamer still 
To nobler dreams. 



And fairer heights of progress will be won. 
With toilsome steps irrevocably slow ; 

Brighter from altruistic dawn to dawn 
The future glow. 



77 



Mid- Victorian Salmagundi 



79 



WHEN POETS SING 

It takes a lot of force to move 

The mind's complex machinery 
When poets sing of friendship, love, 
Religion, science, scenery. 
The wheels go buzzing round 
When poets spurn the ground 
And warble airs 
That banish cares 
In floods of soulful sound. 



THE TALKER 

(Relating to the monoculations of a youth with senatorial 
aspirations) 

There is a man whose windy ways 
Are sometimes simply shocking — 

A harmless seeming wight withal, 
But he is fond of talking. 

He meets me on the Avenue, 
My further progress staying. 

And if he could he'd hold me there 
From Christmas until haying. 

He talks about the weather till 

I'm on the point of weeping ; 
The pedigrees of all who pass 

Are in his windy keeping. 

He talks of horses, baseball, dogs, 

Of music and of pictures. 
And, oh, the long-drawn agonies 

Of his dramatic strictures. 

Whenever we may chance to meet. 

Urbane and condescending, 
He treats me to a flow of words 

Which rushes on unending. 

Even when I fain would sit and dream. 
Old-fashioned fancies nursing 

He'll come with platitudes ornate. 
My sweet, sad thoughts dispersing. 

If incidentally I speak 

Of by-gone days romantic, 
With details of his own calf love 

He nearly drives me frantic. 

82 



If I should fall down stairs, sure he 

Must detail in extenso 
The story of the fate of men 

Whose souls were hurried hence so. 

If I've a boil, he tells me how 

His cousin's aunt's great uncle 
Was once afflicted on the neck 

By an immense carbuncle. 

Ah, me, the stories he has told 

By wholesale and by retail. 
Including the remotest facts 

And details of a detail. 

But though with small talk he'll ne'er shine 

Mid merry lads and lasses. 
Nor in the social function's glow, 

Yet he can stir the masses. 

In short his teeming brain is geared 
To words unchecked and flowing ; 

In Freedom's name he soars aloft 
As his renown keeps growing. 

Truth crushed to earth rises again ; 

That's what he spurns the ground for. 
He hasn't reached the Senate yet, 

But that's the place he's bound for. 



83 



CONCERNING BILL'S PLATFORM 

I'm a somewhat cross-grained geezer, and my ways are often 

rash 
When I'm heated up on home brew with an enemy to thrash. 

But I find as I grow older I ain't quite so full of kicks 

At the way the world is managed, and I've soured on politics. 

I no longer buck the tariff in unlimited debate ; 
To promote the human uplift I don't care to agitate. 

When it seems the car of progress from its course has slumped 

and slid 
I don't figure how to right it with the proper kind of skid. 

Yet the world don't seem to wobble since the thought got in my 

nut 
That I'd try to disremember how to lift it from the rut. 

And I've learned that wife and children, if you only treat them 

straight, 
Make about the finest uplift that I've heard of up to date. 

For I ain't much meek and prayerful, and I guess my mortal life 
Would have turned to ways ungodly if it wasn't for my wife. 

For when she has got me cornered, I am bound to say I won't 
As she lamps me, fond and anxious, with her, "Please, Bill, 
dont." 

And the children, bright and smiling, when I come home tired 

at night 
With the Devil at my elbow, rowdy angels, set me right. 

So I've lost much faith in kickers, who allow their thoughts 

to roam — 
While they try to lift creation — from the uplift of the home. 

Though they sing a song of progress from the low notes to 

high C, 
They perhaps might learn a lesson from my family and me. 

84 



THE WANDERER 

I love to wander where the birds 

Are warbHng all the day ; 
I love to wander where the herds 

Are browsing by the way. 

I love to wander far from home, 
Fanned by the woodland breeze, 

Or watch the gay old north wind comb 
The whiskers of the trees. 

I love to wander where the sea 
Roars wild and unconfined ; 

But best of all it pleases me 
To wander in my mind. 



85 



THE EXTRA-INNING GAME 

Oh, the pent-up, sizzHng madness, not extracted from a jug, 
Of an extra-inning contest, when you've got the baseball bug ; 
When the home team's filled the bases and you fear 'twill end 

in rout 
And the biffer with the swat-stick lines a winning bingle out. 
Then the calmest heart-beats quicken and the citizen sedate 
With umpiricide gets frantic or with howling glee elate. 

And it levels all conditions. Saint and sinner, rich and poor. 

Little Willie, pa, and grandpa join in one delirious roar. 

E'en the poor, conceited pinhead who would like to steal your 

girl 
Is a red-hot bosom crony in that mad fraternal whirl, 
And you're chummy with your neighbor of the fierce, house- 
breaking mug 
When the home team's full of ginger and you've got the base- 
ball bug. 

Oh, your heart grows strangely mellow, and you're glad that 

you're a fan 
In that frenzied demonstration of the brotherhood of man. 
For the world's a blissful bedlam, and all other joys grow tame 
When the home team's winning rally ends an extra-inning 

game. 



RHYME OF THE LITTLE FAN 

Since our ball club got busy 

And made the champs feel sore, 

My ma at night's uneasy 
Until she hears the score. 

Each day in the grandstand pa 
Is seated with the gang, 

And even good old grandpa 
Is slinging baseball slang. 

Out where the bleachers beller 
My brother Bill's in view. 

And sister and her feller 
Have caught the fever, too. 

The rag no more I'm chewing 
Since teacher's ceased to frown. 

You bet, when something's doing, 
This is a baseball town. 



81 



THE OYSTER 

As the air becomes chilly and nipping 

And the wind whistles wild through the trees, 

Then the form of the oyster comes slipping 
Into dreams of the dishes that please. 

He is good, whether stewed or roasted, 

Or frittered, or broiled, or fried, 
Or steamed and dished up almost hid 

In his juice, or when raw he doth glide 

Down the primrose path to the stomach. 

Impelled by an ecstatic gulp. 
Where old Hunger's voice he doth dumb make — 

Blessed lump of comestible pulp. 

It is true that his touch is creepy 
With the ghostly damps of the sea ; 

That he's soggy, and solemn, and sleepy. 
And that never a smile hath he. 

But though he is briny with weeping 
For a past that is past, yet a balm 

For life's little trials is sleeping 
In the depths of his infinite calm. 

Whether stewed, broiled, fried, or frittered, 

He just fills the epicure's maw, 
And the man can't be wholly embittered 

Who has learned to engulf him raw. 

So with gladness we honor the oyster 

In a mild epicurean song ; 
For he makes human hearts with much joy stir 

As he glides down the throats of the throng. 



OPENING REMARKS OF THE OYSTER 

I am the wingless bird 
Of the sea 

Whose song is heard 
In a sizzle of cookery. 
And though I utter no sound, 
Raw on my mission bound, 
The plunk of my form shall serve, 
Soft on the dinner nerve. 
To release the music pent 
In the hunger-keyed, soulfully sensitive 
gastrical instrument. 

List, oh, listen to me : 

I would set you from hunger free, 

Not when from down below 

Arises, unchecked in its flow 

And uproarious, the shout 

That clamors for sausage and kraut, 

For cabbage or greens or kail. 

Or some sort of feed without fail. 

The inner man being stirred 

By visions of food deferred. 

But when arises a cry 

For a dish less prosaic than pie, 

And you sigh 

For a victim delicious and frail, 

Your longing I satisfy. 

For my juice is the soul of me, 

Soul of the soul of the sea. 

And the mortal who eats 

Shall feel in his cardiac beats 

The songs of the shells 

That inhabit the submarine dells, 

And he 

All untroubled shall swim 

In a restfulness born of the sea, 

Brought up to the Ego of Him 

By the Ego of Me. 

89 



THE PROOFREADER AND THE BARD 

The intelligent proofreader perhaps deserves his name ; 

It may be he does not trespass on the sacred scroll of fame; fcj 

And no doubt his reputation, firmly based on solid prose, ^ 

Can withstand the sad recital of a humble poet's woes, 

Yet I'd like to make the statement, and I want to put it strong,^ 

That he's not a brilliant figure in the starlit field of song; 

And I'll dwell for just a moment on my own unhappy fate 

As a melancholy instance of the truth of what I state. 

When my heart was young and tender, I admired a maiden fair,] 
And I tried in words poetic how I loved her to declare. 
In the Pumpkin County Eagle I essayed to print those words] 
Which, upon the wings of fancy, fluttered forth like singing] 

birds. 
I informed her that her glance divine was all that could control! 
The tempest of the ocean of my passion-drifted soul ; 
In the purest strains of love and truth I let my passion speak. 
Alas, I might as well have sung in Arabic or Greek. 

For that aforesaid fountain of encyclopedic worth 

Made the precious offering of my muse a theme for fiendish 

mirth. 
In the song I called the maiden " the sweet torment of my life," 
But that son of Satan made it " the sweet torment of my wife." 
Fondly dreaming that at last to me her gentle thoughts inclined, 
I exclaimed, " My heart grows happy in a deep repose of mind." 
Imagine how my spirits fell — with what a sickening thud — 
When I read, " My heart grows sappy in a damp repose of mud." 

Not to mention other changes which 'twere folly to repeat, 
He implanted corns and bunions on the song's poetic feet ; 
And the maiden's heart grew frigid, and her smiles were not 

for me, 
And thus a Shakespeare No. 2 was lost to poesy. 
So the budding bard I'd caution not to trust our learned friend 
When the wireless telegrams of song from heart to heart he'd 

send. 
Unless, perchance, he wants to strew the garden paths of time 
With the mutilated remnants of the passion flowers of rhyme. 

90 



A REALIST 



The wrinkles on grandmother's face 

He pictured a la mode, 
But failed to catch the warmth of soul 

In her dear eyes that glowed. 



Grandfather's stoop and tinted nose 

Remorselessly he drew, 
But failed to bring grandfather's wealth 

Of sentiment to view. 



Purblind he strolled mid hothouse plants 

Beneath a roof of glass. 
Unconscious that his sluggish steps 

Fell not on summer grass. 



91 



AN EASTER TRANSFORMATION 



'Twas but a hat. An Easter prize 
The passing shoppers deemed it, 

Though, trusting my untutored eyes, 
I never would have dreamed it. 



To me it seemed a tawdry thing, 
And hardly worth a dollar — 

A feeble travesty of spring. 
Albeit gay with color. 



A maiden purchased it, and now 
The flowers which inwreathe it 

Bloom fair as Eden in the glow 
Of her dark eyes beneath it. 



92 



AMBITION 

Ambition is a kite which flown too high, 

Drenched in the clouds of chance, drops from the sky. 



THE DEMOCRACY OF BEAUTY 

Nosegays by tired and toilworn fingers clipped 
Outrank bouquets from royal gardens stripped. 



THE FUTILITY OF PESSIMISM 

The doleful drip of pessimistic tears 
Wears not the restless millstone of the years. 



THE MISER'S CLUTCH 

The miser's clutch upon his hoarded gold 
Is with the frost of men's repugnance cold. 



93 



THE CYNIC 

The gems that grace true manhood he doth hide 
Within the soul's dark cabinet of pride. 



THE BLACK AND WHITE OF IT 

When she said, with a smile that was full of good cheer, 

" The Devil's not black as he's painted," 
He replied, " Nor as white as he's whitewashed, dear " — 
And then she just naturally fainted. 



A POET ON THE LINKS 

Not mine the golf links where men go 

To join in sport exciting. 
Give me, when wintry breezes blow, 

The sausage links inviting. 



94 



THE MAD QUEST 

The world is wide ; 

Then who would bide 
In one dull spot forever? 

Heart, in our quest 

We'll brook no rest, 
And yield to sorrow never. 

Then, care, good-bye ; 

My heart and I 
Will range the world together. 

Fate's cup we'll quaff 

And bravely laugh, 
Come foul or sunny weather. 

We fare not forth 

To try our worth 
Gainst armored knight or dragon ; 

For we erstwhile 

Of woman's guile 
Drank deep a bitter flagon. 

And gaily meek, 

A land we seek 
Where truth with love is blended 

In woman's breast; 

And our mad quest 
Will end when time is ended. 



95 



A LOVE SOPHIST 

FROZEN 

Because I have wooed without winning 
And sit here so tranquil and cool, 

You call me a passionless stoic 
Who am only a heart-frozen fool. 

The sunlight on perilous icebergs 
Glows afar with a semblance of heat. 

So the seeming soul-warmth of the distance 
Froze my heart as I knelt at her feet. 

REVIVIFIED 

Why, yes, little maiden, I loved once. 
Or thought I did, ere I saw you ; 

But the fair one was cold as an iceberg 
And, as I drew near, chilled me through. 

Alas, my poor heart was well frozen 
As I knelt like a fool at her feet, 

And — By Jove, I believe it is melting 
In the warmth of your glances, my sweet. 



96 



THE LOVE-SICK OCULIST 

Now in this roseate dawn of love, 
Which every joy of life enhances, 

My ardent thoughts divinely rove 
And grow poetic in her glances. 

And though she yields not to my song, 
Restrained by some sweet maiden scruple, 

ril strive to teach her love as long 
As in her eyes I find a pupil. 



97 



THE JILTED BARD 

HIS SONG 

He never knew until he loved 
How sweet a thing is melancholy. 

He never knew how sweet is love 
Until he sang love's sweet finale. 

HIS HEART 

She laughed at him and at his verses ; 

Dainty little head she tossed. 
Every gossip now rehearses 

How he wooed and how he lost. 

Woman's love by poets vaunted 
Gold will buy it in the mart. 

HI he fares who fate-undaunted 
Makes an inkwell of his heart. 



98 



A POST-VICTORIAN ANOMALY 

A poet won a charming bride, 
A cultured modern beauty, 

Of whom he sang with manly pride. 
As was his bounden duty. 

And when his first-bom came along. 
While joy did overflow him, 

He said : " The kid shall live in song ; 
He'll make a first-class poem." 

Ah, who can tell what gloom is hid 
In hopes the fancy nurses? 

While he composed the little kid. 
His wife composed the verses. 



99 



A NATURALISTIC WARBLER 

When the robin is singing high up in the tree 

And his music the memory brings 
Of the days when my heart from love's thraldom was free, 

Do you think of me, love, when he sings ? 

Do you think of me, love, when the stars twinkle bright 
Making sweeter the thoughts that you think ? 

Oh, surely you long for my smile. Am I right? 
Do you think of me, love, when they twink ? 

When the brook with a whisper of song ripples by. 

As over the landscape it slips, 
For the sight of my manly physique do you sigh ? 

Do you think of me, love, when it rips? 

Do you think of me, love, as I warble so sweet 

While the ozone of joy I absorb ? 
Without my glad song would life be incomplete? 

Do you think of me, love, when I warb ? 



100 



A PESSIMISTIC ADDENDUM 

" There's ample room on top," the sage 
Remarked ; then growing sadder, 

" But that can not his grief assuage 
Who's jostled from the ladder." 



WORDSWORTH'S INCONSISTENCY 

" The good die young," the poet wrote 
In language grave and weighty, 
And then to prove that he was wrong 
He passed away at eighty. 



101 



THE SAD IRON 

An instrument for ironing clothes; a flatiron." — "Webster's Dictionary. 

Sad iron, oh, forgive the bard if haply 

His feeble words shall fail to do thee proud ; 

For thou wouldst understand his deep compassion 
If he could only whisper it aloud. 

With what enduring patience dost thou linger 
Upon the outspread cloth, just damply wet — 

The manly sock, the shaplier female stocking 
And eke my lady's ruffled chemisette ! 

Thou art the type of those who worship duty 

In hodiernal acts of saintly toil. 
Ah ! thou dost teach mankind a needed lesson, 

And yet thou ne'er didst monkey with a boil. 

Oh, scornful Iron, stoutly uncomplaining, 
Domestic slave within these human walls ! 

Oh, tireless traveler over cuffs and collars, 
Shirt-bosoms, underwear, and overalls ! 

Oh, Iron, wast thou once serenely wafted 

O'er seas of moonlight in thy cushioned barge, 

Ere on these shores of time at last it stranded? 
Surely thy foot not always was so large ! 



102 



Didst thou once linger in the land of fairy, 
A flitting spirit of the moonlit night, 

With no sad routine of domestic duty 
To dull the edges of thy appetite ? 

Or didst thou once, in ages prehistoric 

Cleave the hot air on bright asbestos wings, 

Companion of the gruesome pterodactyl, 
And such like grisly, grim, terrific things ? 

And were thy wings in some bright pre-existence 
Shorn from thee by the ruthless shears of fate, 

That here we find thee urged o'er textile fabrics 
By alien hands, supremely desolate ? 

My words are vain. Alas, thou wilt not answer 
Wrapped in thy mantle of eternal scorn. 

Yet to the poet thou shalt voice thy sorrow 
If ever thou dost tread upon his corn. 



103 



A DUBIOUS IDEALIST 

Oh, maiden, maiden sweetly true, 

For thee I've waited long ; 
I've wooed thee oft in twilight dreams 

And wooed thee oft in song. 

Reveal thyself unto me now 

And let me take thy hand ; 
Before me coy, yet coyly kind. 

In fleshly sweetness stand. 

Oh, maiden, maiden of my dreams, 

Oh, maiden sweetly true, 
I then will cease to woo in rhyme — 

Will like a lover woo. 

And maiden fair or maiden dark. 

As sweetly you may be. 
Then Fate will smile and cease to frown 

If I am true to thee. 



104 



INSPIRATION 

She dwells where manly thought forever strives 
To tame the restless fool's heart of a boy, 

(^nd o'er man's life regretful Sorrow croons, 
Let through the fields of song by pensive Joy. 



LOVE AND FAME 

In vain he sought for fame — the way was dark- 
Until a girl's glance lighted up his soul. 

And love's clear star grew from a tiny spark 
To guide his faltering footsteps to the goal. 



SWEET OBLIVION 

Oh, fair young girl, with instinctive art 

Dispelling my sordid fretting, 
You will doubtless forget me when we part, 

But if kindly be your forgetting. 
Why, lost in the Lethe of your warm heart. 

My fate were too sweet for regretting. 



105 



THE WOMAN-HATER 

Having ventured the question of questions, 
He writhes with the bitter smart 

Of her glances so tenderly potent 
That rankle in his heart. 

Yet wait till the season passes 

Of his first sad, thoughtless plaints, 

And he ceases to place life's journey 
As who by the wayside faints. 

And her glances feathered with laughter 
And tipped with the secret of pain, 

No more in his heart they rankle. 
But they rankle in his brain. 



106 



A NEW BALLAD OF THE OLD HOME 

You may sing of homes of childhood far away down on the 
farm, 
Where in innocence bucolic once you played ; 
There's a home down in the city, nineteen stories up, whose 
charm 
Throws the antiquated farmhouse in the shade. 
There's no honeysuckle twining, and no wild flowers blossom 
there. 
And no birds so sweetly warble, and all that ; 
Yet of homes to be remembered there is none that will com- 
pare 
With that dear old little home up in the flat. 



Though it knew no joyous ditties of a tuneful rustic band. 

It was filled with sounds, whose memory makes me sad. 
Of the man who plunked the banjo and the girl who banged 
the grand 

And the chap that scraped the bargain-counter Strad. 
But my children reached a dozen, and I had to occupy 

Other quarters, where there's room to swing a cat ; 
For 'tis quite beyond all reason to increase and multiply 

In that dear old little home up in the flat. 



107 



THE CATS 

Hear the warbling of the cats — 

Merry cats! 
Oh, I love to hear the music of their midnight nightly 
spats ! 
And they waltz around and frisk all, 

In the icy air of night 
In a way so weird and brisk all, 
While their shapely tails they whisk all, 

With a Cataline delight ! 
Keeping time with their tails. 
Like a lot of Runic flails, 
To the concat-catenation, sung in sundry sharps and flats, 
Of a canticle on rats, 

Rats, rats, rats. 
To a wild carniverous canticle on rats ! 

Hear the turbulent Tom cats — 

Daddy cats ! 
How the catapultic bootjacks interrupt their fiendish chats ! 
In the darkness of the night 
How their ghoulish outcries smite 
Ears polite ! 
From their catacoustic throats 

An intense 
Cataphonic ditty floats 
To the proud prize cat who listens, while she gloats, 

On the fence — 
Ah, the tabby cat who listens, while she gloats, 
To the surging cataclysm of their wild catarrhal notes ! 



108 



Hear the hoarse grandfather cats — 

Aged cats! 
How they make us long to grasp a score of good brickbats ! 
They have caught a bad catarrh 

Caterwauhng at the moon; 
You may hear them from afar 
Out of tune, 
In a clamorous appealing to the aged tabby cat, 
In a futile mad appealing to the deaf old tabby cat ! 
Shrieking higher, higher, higher, 
Like a demon in a fire — 
While the little kitten cats. 

Infant cats, 
Sing an emulous sweet ditty of their love for juicy rats! 

That's 
But a rudimental spasm of the capers of the cats. 



109 



AN APPALLING FALLING 

Alas, my soul it doth appall — 
In fact it makes me grieve — 

That when the leaves begin to fall 
The fall begins to leave. 



AN AUTUMNAL FANCY 

Yes the year is growing old ; 

Soon he'll don his icy wear 
And begin to comb the cold 

Snowflake dandruff from his hair. 



110 



THE SNORER 

Oh, I like to hear the snorer 

When the summer nights are hot. 
And I'm tossing, tired and restless, 

On my comfortable cot, 
And no other sound arises 

Save the baby's gleeful " Goo ! " 
For it's full of latent music. 

And it thrills me through and through- 
Schaughwhaoughoo ! 

How it slams the gates of slumber, 

While the tomcat stands aloof. 
As it gushes through the window, 

And then rumbles o'er the roof ! 
All the neighboring sinners dang it 

Till the night is black and blue, 
And the saints forget the language 

Of the beautiful and true. 
Schaughwhaoughoo ! 

Every one breathes maledictions 

Hardly fit for rhymes polite. 
As it slips and slides and snoozles 

Through the watches of the night. 
Ripping restful calm to tatters. 

Full of discords not a few. 
Like the slumber-song primeval 

Of the chorus of the Zoo. 
Schaughwhaoughoo ! 



Ill 



THREE OF A KIND 

A teamster once upon a time 

Devoutly loved a girl named Nancy 

And tried to tell his love in rhyme 
Because he had a teeming fancy. 



Although the farmer's land was free 
From mortgages and never weedy, 

The maiden would not heed his plea 

Because the clothes he wore were seedy. 



A song about his girl he wrote, 

Inspired thereto by Cupid's pranks ; 
Offered it to the Bingtown Goat. 

Declined with thanks. 
He then, his feelings in a whirl 

(Ah, love is strong, and some draw blanks) 
Offered the poet to the girl. 

Declined with thanks. 



112 



IN ZION ALLEY 

Just listen at the bilin' of the taters in the pot 

An' the music of the f ryin' of the po'k. 
Oh, it make a cullud pussun forget his mou'nful lot 

An' the gallin' of the earthly yoke. 
For the burden of the day am at las' laid down, 

An' the poor man fills up his pipe 
An' dreams of the time when he'll wear the res'ful crown 
An' the fruit of heavenly mercy'll be ripe. 
Put the dishes on the table, Sally ; 
Call in the chilluns from the alley. 
Cris' an' juicy am the po'k 
An' the tater skins is broke; 
Call in the chilluns, Sally. 

At the endin' of the day but it jus' am gran' 

In the wa'mness of the kitchin for to smoke, 
An' the bes' the earth can give am the po'tion of the man 

With a relish for the fatness of the po'k. 
For the wind am aseekin' the crack in the wall 

An' sneakin' underneaf the do' ; 
But the Lawd has shed his bounty whar the cullud baby 
crawl 
Aworritin' the cat upon the flo'. 
Put the dishes on the table, Sally ; 
Call in the chilluns from the alley. 
Cris' an' juicy am the po'k 
An' the tater skins is broke; 
Call in the chilluns, Sally. 



113 



THE GOSPEL MELON 

The gospel melon am mighty good meat — 

Come along, sinnah, an' try it. 
Red to the rine an' gospel sweet — 

Wages of sin can't buy it. 

Come along sinnah, an' get your slice. 

Why do you stand thar waitin' ? 
Fresh an' cool from the gospel ice. 

(Hear the gates of hell a-gratin'). 

The gospel melon am not for sale ; 

It am free for the meanes' sinnah. 
Oh, you will weep when your slice gits stale 

An' you eats of the Debbil's dinnah. 

The mouth of hell it am deep an' wide 

(Hear them gates agratin') ; 
Don't let the chance of salvashun slide. 

Sinnah, why is you waitin' ? 

The meat am red and the rine am thin ; 

My heart with its praise am swellin'. 
Oh, sinnah man, leave the fruits of sin 

An' partake of the gospel melon. 

It melts in the mouth like manna of old 
(The gates of hell am agratin'). 

An' it can't be bought with the earthly goldo 
Sinnah, why is you waitin' ? 



114 



A PRACTICAL PUNSTER 

Old Jones was stout and fat and bald, 

And eke a jovial man 
Who wrestled with terrestrial cares 

Upon the jolly plan. 

And just to show his scorn of death 
And add one chestnut more 

To that huge pile of mouldering jokes 
Which strew this mortal shore, 

He brought from Egypt o'er the sea 

A huge sarcophagus. 
And unto his inquiring friends 

Explained the matter thus : 

Therein I wish to be interred," 

And added with a laugh, 
' Carved on its prehistoric sides, 

Be this my epitaph — 

" Rocked in a cradle was his form 
At birth, and, when death's shock 
Has sent him hence, 'tis meet that he 
Be cradled in a rock." 



115 



HIS TRAGIC SOUL 

Buskin, the great tragedian, lay stretched upon his couch ; 
Each time he stirred he muttered a not very tragic " Ouch." 

Alas, some fiend through Buskin's legs had thrust rheumatic 

darts ; 
Those towers of tragic strength refused to play their kingly 

parts. 

His friend, Bill Stagestride, came and stood in grief by Bus- 
kin's bed, 
And, hoping thus to cheer him up, in hearty accents said : 

" Though overthrown, still do you look your regal self, by jing." 
Then Buskin's tragic soul found voice: "Aye, every inch 
aching." 



n6 



AN AQUATIC TRAGEDY 

Bill Rowboat boasted strength galore, 

For fame aquatic sought ; 
With skill he always feathered oar, 

A crab he never caught. 

In fact, he ne'er came out in force 

Until he was afloat; 
Although he never rode a horse, 

He often rowed a boat. 

In training Bill with schemes was fraught ; 

No chances would he take. 
He ate round steak because he thought 

'Twould help him round the stake. 

A red-cheeked girl Bill's fancy struck, 

With eyes as black as sloes ; 
And often when his rows he took 

He took indeed his Rose. 

" Why is your boat, when not in use. 
Like Yorick's skull ? Canst tell ? " 
One day Rose asked ; then laughed, " You goose, 
'Tis but an empty shell." 

Bill's guffaw rang out strong and full. 
And then this shot he fired : 
" Your joke quite fills my empty skull," 
And, saying that, expired. 



117 



LOVE SONG OF A JAY CHAUFFEUR 

My auto stands beside the curb ; 

Come spin therein with me 
Where city sounds shall not disturb 

Reposeful reverie. 

(Chug-chug!) With animating speed 

Past city blocks we flash, 
And hurry by the fastest steed 

That feels a driver's lash. 

Ah, now we've reached the limit where. 

As faster still we go 
(We missed that coal truck by a hair) , 

Bucolic breezes blow. 

And as we leave the city street 

And whirl through bosky dells 
I seem to hear the voices sweet 

Of joyful wedding bells. 

Yet there is sadness in their chime, 

For you, unyielding still — 
Had I not seen that rock in time 

There would have been a spill. 

Oh, let your heart be free from fear 

And banish cold reserve. 
You're frightened. Can't you trust me, dear? 

(That was a nasty curve.) 



118 



With love all nature is agog 

And whispers of my vow; 
Then why with coldness — Drat that hog. 

(Chug-chug.) I've ditched a cow. 

With kindly looks dispel love's night. 

Oh, brighten love's young dream 
With tender glances which — Hold tight ; 

There comes a six-ox team. 

(Kerzip.) By Jove, it's raining hair 
And horns and hoofs and hides ; 

Yet, like the love I'd fain declare 
Our auto gently glides. 

My heart is breaking, and love's wraith 
But mocks my hopeless mood — 

Jove, there's a log-chain in our path, 
Planted by yokels rude. 

(Chug-chug.) Good-bye, love. (Zip-kerboom.) 

Thank Heaven, you are not hurt, 
And visions bright my soul illume. 
Though sprawling in the dirt. 

For your dear eyes the truth impart ; 

Your love no more I'll beg, 
And you will mend my broken heart 

While doctors mend my leg. 



113 



Obsolete and Obsolescent Jokes in Jingles 



121 



JOKES IN JINGLES 



JANUARY 



The New Year Resolution Joke 

Was once an easy winner 
When Dry Resolves went up in smoke 

To mock the Sad-eyed Sinner. 



The Joke of Dear Old Mother-in-law, 
As sprung by Jesters rude, 

If often desperately Raw 
As well as beastly Crude. 



Of Jokes about Banana Peels 

Today there is a dearth, 
Though once they flung men by the heels, 

Provoking Peals of Mirth. 



123 



FEBRUARY 

The Ground Hog Joke's mossgrown, ah, me ; 

Yet once 'twas paragraphed 
With such uncurbed Jocosity 

Even the Ground Hog laughed. 

No more we greet with pleasure keen 
The Umbrella Joke well pickled, 

Though when it first got busy e'en 
The Umbrella's ribs it tickled. 

The Joke about Gigantic Feet — 

Feet of Chicago's Lasses — 
No more can waken Laughter sweet 

And rouse to mirth the Masses. 

By the Boarding House Chicken Joke possibly still 
The Boarders with mirth may be stricken. 

But you'll doubtless admit without argument, Bill, 
That the Joke is as tough as the Chicken. 



124 



MARCH 

The old Saint Patrick's Joke, which once 

The grin of joy could shed 
Through rain and sleet, no longer flaunts 

The Grin above the Red. 

The Watered Milk Joke's glimmerings fail, 

Yet once it caused a scandal 
So great the astonished Cow turned Pail 

And the Pump flew off the Handle. 

The Spring House-Cleaning Joke, though penned 

With apt elaboration. 
No longer o'er the land can send 

Wild Waves of Cachinnation. 

Each year the vernal breezes bring, 

To gladden Wintry Sighers, 
Heard in man's first primeval Spring, 

The Joke of Fish Tale Liars. 



125 



APRIL 

The Easter Hat Joke won some smiles, 
While Chortling Jokers gloated, 

In days of mid-Victorian styles 
Before the Women Voted. 

The Umpire Joke served up in gore. 
With Whiskers shingled neatly. 

Mid rude uproar of Fans galore. 
Should be invoked discreetly. 

The Frosted Peach Joke which could start 

A Smile no frost could reach, 
Now makes the Housewife's Smile depart 

As frosted as the Peach. 

About the time when Twittering Birds 
Their downy nests have made 

The Joke anent Last Summer's Hat 
Improves the Straw Hat Trade. 



126 



MAT 

The May Queen Joke — dear Girl, how oft 

We've found it necessary 
To shriek with laughter while she coughed- 

No more makes Millions merry. 

We know that Picnic Days are here, 

Time of unstinted gladness, 
When Rock the Boat Fool Jokes appear. 

To check the Rocker's madness. 

The Garden Joke wins much applause. 

Of Gardeners from town 
Whose seeds refuse to sprout because 

They're planted Upside Down. 

When the Spring Poet paragraph 
Was sprung, all vernal friskers 

Long since would laugh at that wild chaff 
Despite its grizzled whiskers. 



127 



JUNE 

With joy we hail June Jokes about 

Weddings and Wedding Trips 
Of Brides who beam with love devout 

On Bridegrooms in eclipse. 

Of Jokes that rise and Jokes that fall, 

With precious memories laden, 
Perhaps the sweetest Joke of all 

Clings to the Ice-Cream Maiden. 

The Collar-Button Joke lies cold, 

Fit subject for a Joker's tears; 
To dusty sleep long since it rolled 

Beneath the Bureau of the Years. 

"Oh, what is so rare as a day in June?" 
Why, that I've not learned to remember, 
But the Joke of the Merry June Rock-the-Boat Loon 
Is is as raw as a day in December. 



128 



JULY 

Let's hope that the Toy Pistol Joke, 

On Fourth of July morning, 
May not, alas, go up in smoke 

With Lads who scorned its warning. 

Here's to the July Jokelet choice 
That tickled the Joke Sorter, 

About the Viewless Chunk of Ice 
He purchased for a Quarter. 

The Farm House Joker, long since dead. 
In peals of mirth once wallowed 

Where food bucolic, so he said. 
Was hardly ever swallowed. 

The Boston Bean Joke, when required. 
Once smoothed care's wrinkled brow 

If with artistic gusto fired. 
It is a Has Bean now. 



129 



AUGUST 

The Farmer Joke is slow to die ; 

Some Hayseed still adorns it, 
Though in his auto gliding by 

The quondam Hayseed scorns it. 

The Picnic Pie Joke doth no more 
Our souls in laughter smother, 

Perhaps because the Ants are sore 
On pies not made by mother. 

As long as human law exists 

No power can put a stop 
To Jokes of callow Journalists 

About the Slumbering Cop. 

The Summer Girl Joke, with a charm 
That made all Hearts grow mellow. 

No more, when balmy nights grow warm. 
Disturbs her Winter Fellow. 



130 



SEPTEMBER 

We shiver e'en while we guffaw 
When, standing in wit's portal, 

About Belated Hats of Straw 
Autumnal Jesters chortle. 

The Stovepipe Joke once thrilled men's slats 
So that they howled and hooted, 

But to these days of stoveless flats 
It doesn't seem quite sooted. 

When Autumn winds begin to howl. 

The Moth Ball Joke gets busy 
To make the Masses cheek by jowl 

With cachinnation dizzy. 

The Small Boy and Green Apple Joke — 

No limit once confined It — 
May now and then a smile provoke. 

The Small Boy doesn't mind It. 



131 



OCTOBER 

When autumn leaves are playing tag, 

Wind-swept across the lawn, 
There's still some wag to spring the Gag 

Of Overcoats in Pawn. 

The Joke about Her Father's Wrath 

May any day assail us ; 
While Sweethearts tread Love's Primrose Path 

'Twill not entirely fail us. 

You'd hardly think, and yet 'tis said 

That, tickling Human Slats, 
Apartment House Jokes once were made 

By flippant Sharps in Flats. 

Here's a Quatrain to that dizzy 
Joke, undimmed by passing years, 

Of the Small Boy who gets Busy 
When his Sister's Beau appears. 



132 



NOVEMBER 

Lo, when the Year is nearly spent, 
Thanksgiving skies grown murky, 

We can't forget old Jokes anent 
The Musings of the Turkey. 

Oh, a Joke whose ancient glitter 
Often roused a Raucous Roar 

Is that grizzled old Sidesplitter 
Of the Tack on Bedroom Floor. 

Once Hoopskirt Jokes a smile evoked. 
Born with a Ghostly Rustle, 

What time Gay Paragraphers Joked 
Of Grecian Bend and Bustle. 

The Plumber Joke the Joker gripes 

With merriment unfeeling 
When moisture from the Bursted Pipes 

Frescoes the Walls and Ceiling. 



133 



DECEMBER 

When Congress sits we hail with zest 

The Joke about Verbosity, 
Whose gladsome variations test 

The brain's anfractuosity. 

The Seal Skin Sacque Joke is Played Out, 

And if today it were fetched 
Into the light, we'd think, no doubt, 

It's humor rather Furf etched. 

Little mirth can the Hair-in-the-Butter Joke rouse 
Since the days when 'twas drug-tinted yellow, 

And that's why the ruminant Cows as they browse 
Low in accents so mournfully mellow. 



134 



THE SONG OF THE JOKE 

(A long distance after Hood) 
[Albert (New Brunswick) Maple Leaf. 1886] 

With hair all tumbled and tossed, 

With brain top-heavy with fun, 
A funny man sat in his dingy den. 

Trying to make a pun. 
Write ! write ! write ! 

Half -hid in tobacco smoke; 
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch 

He sang " The Song of the Joke." 

Joke! joke! joke! 

While the printer yells, *" Cop-ee !" 
And joke — joke — joke. 

With never a smile of glee ; 
And it's oh, to be a clam 

In the restful mud to lurk, 
Where American humor never comes. 

If this be Christian work. 

Jokes of the seal-skin sacque ; 

Jokes of Chicago feet ; 
Jokes of my dear old mother-in-law ; 

Jokes of boarding-house meat; 
Jokes of the ice-cream girl ; 

And likewise of Thomas cats. 
What are my wages? The measly cry, 

" Chestnut !" or even, " Rats !" 



135 



Rhymes of the Government Printing Office 

[The Trades-Unionist] 



137 



AMOS J. CUMMINGS 

Printer, Soldier, Journalist, Congressman. Born, May 15, 
1841 ; died. May 2, 1902. 

With manly strength to strive for human rights 
And heart responsive to the thrill of beauty. 

Ambition's murmur reached him from the heights, 
But never lured him from the path of duty. 

He reached life's summit with no sudden bound, 
But climbed with mind at ease and footstep steady ; 

And when the sunset shadows gathered round 

And hid the earth he loved, death found him ready. 

For he had humbly toiled and ne'er forgot 

His brother toilers as life's scenes were shifting ; 

Not rashly, but with kindly care, he sought 
To hasten on the work of man's uplifting. 



139 



ADAM BUGG'S CHRISTMAS SERMON 

Brethren: As the Christmas season 
With its jolHty draws nearer, 
With its jolHty and gladness, 
And its music of kind actions. 
Let us each assist his neighbor. 
Brother making glad his brother ; 
Say the pleasant word and hopeful, 
Do the kindly deed and helpful. 

And, oh, do not let the fellow 

With the much-disordered liver. 

Full of malice, full of envy. 

Stir you up to act unseemly. 

Him too often we have with us. , 

In the language of the vulgar. 

Of destructural jaw-workers, 

He is what is called a " knocker " 

And he loves to ply his hammer 

Till the human heart o'erheated 

Sends forth sparks of senseless passion. 

Foolish hatred. For the knocker 

In his spiteful glee imagines 

That the heart is boiler iron. 

And he causes hideous discords 

Where the heart should throb with music. 

But despite his dreadful clamor 
Let your path be strewn with flowers ; 
Gather bright bouquets of friendship 
From the fields of Christian kindness; 



140 



Toss them to your struggling brothers, 
Help them on their way rejoicing, 
Better for the genial fragrance 
Of kind words — of gentle language. 
Oh, how sweet they bud and blossom 
As we cross life's desert places — 
Blooms of Bloomer, Sutton's wild flowers, 
McPike's Pikes that gem life's turnpike, 
Newsom's nosegay's, Gunn's wit blossoms. 
Growths from Redfield's bouquet garden, 
Morning glories of *' Rough Writer," 
And " Tim Tickle's " prose perennials ; 
" Cowboy's " cowslips, " Paste's " wall-flowers, 
" Cycle's " chrysanthemums reaching 
Altruistically sunward. 
Not to mention other blossoms 
Of good cheer and hope and gladness. 

Now, my brethren, lest the thistles 

And the poison plants which cynics 

Like to cultivate and nourish. 

Foul with atrabilious tarnish, 

Slimy, loathsome, vile, and hellish. 

Should invade the radiant reaches 

Of the fields of Christian kindness, 

Oh, I pray you, shun the knock-talk. 

And with music of kind actions 

Shake the dust from off your heart strings. 



141 



THE NEW YEAR: 1904 

Oh, new-born Year, 

Crowned with the wreath of plenty, you appear ! 

What burden do you bear — 

What gift 

That shall uplift 

Mankind, and which 

Shall even enrich 

The treasure by the centuries amassed ? 

Even as your brothers of the past 

Freed earth from fatal damps and lurking beast, 

So that mankind increased ; 

Dispelled earth's primal gloom. 

With sweat-drops glittering on the toiler's brow, 

With fecund furrow of the plow. 

And with the song of spindle and of loom — 

Oh, let our souls be freed 

From self -destructive greed. 

And fill the halls of state 

With that sane vigor which shall conquer hate 

And quench the sordid fever of the mart. 

Redeem the desert places of the heart; 

Make glad the earth 

With childish mirth 

Where children's laughter was not heard before. 

Let men grow wise, 

And learn to prize 

Not more 

The fateful glitter of their hoarded store 

Than golden deeds. 

Far-reaching — seeking how 

To bear the staggering weight of human needs ; 

To vivify the Now 

With fires potential that at last shall glow 

Through customs, laws, and creeds 

In long-sought brotherhood. 



142 



THE GIRLS OF THE G. P. 0. 

Shy, coquettish, winsome, sweet, 
Tall and stately, short, petite. 
Plump and lovely, slim and fair. 
Coy, bewitching, debonair: 
Eyes of brown and eyes of blue, 
Gray, and every other hue — 
Here they come from near and far, 
Some on foot and some by car. 
Ones and twos and three and fours, 
Beautifying all outdoors. 
Laughing, chatting as they go 
Daily to the G. P. O. 

How they light the morning hour, 
Though the clouds above may lower, 
With the sunshine of their smiles ; 
How their witchery beguiles ; 
How their presence drives away 
Blues you thought had come to stay ; 
Painting life a rosy hue, 
Till your gray old head feels brown, 
And a smile dispels your frown, 
And you almost say out loud, 
Heedless of the hurrying crowd, 
" Heaven bless them as they go 
Daily to the G. P. O." 



143 



A PILLAR OF THE WORKS 

[1901] 

(Being a little Rhyme which showeth how ye Able but 
Mendacious Compositor deceive th ye Young Youth.) 

" What makes you work at night, dear pa, 
When you might work by day ? 
I've often wondered why, and ma 
Says 'tis the extra pay." 

" Not so, young man. I've got the speed, 
And when on me they call, 
I can't refuse them in their need, 
Your mother's off her * trol.' " 

" Pa, what's that light which high in air 
Gleams through the midnight murk ? " 

" Why, Congress had it planted there 
To guide me home from work." 

"And you must see the paper goes 
To press ere you come home ? " 

" That's the express desire of those 
Who talk beneath the Dome." 

" But what if they should overtalk 
Themselves this coming winter ? " 

" Don't worry, boy ; we'll get'er out — 
Me and the Public Printer." 

" Say, pa, you are a crackajack. 
And much to be admired. 
My, won't they wish they had you back 
If ever you get fired ! " 



144 



THE RHYME OF THE PRESSMAN 

Whene'er I think of thee, my dear 

And all thy smile expresses, 
There's sweetest music even in 

The clatter of the presses. 
And though these words from daily toil 

Are but a brief digression, 
Yet still I hope my little song 

Will make a good impression. 



145 



THE WHISTLE 

Being reflections of Adam Bugg at the end of a HandnSet Turn-in 

Oh, the music of the whistle is a pleasant sound to hear, 
As it wafts the song of freedom to the weary worker's ear. 
When his brain is gittin' drowsy and his arm has lost its speed, 
And his gastronomic system is petitioning for feed. 

Oh, the music of the whistle when she blows at half -past four, 
Ain't the worst that ever thrilled me since I struck life's sinful 

shore ; 
And I've noticed that it gits there with its most angelic thrill 
When there ain't no big hiatus in your average to fill. 

Which, feelin' after-dinnerish, and therefore somewhat fit, 
I think I'll buttonhole myself and sermonize a bit 
About the moral average that haunts his brain when man 
Tries to keep time with the music of the universal plan. 

The flowery paths of life are short; its dusty paths are long; 
And it's sometimes mighty hard to tell the right path from the 

wrong ; 
And you've got to travel mostly in a blindfold sort of way 
With the Devil creepin' close behind to grab you night and day. 



146 



There are pitfalls fair and temptin' with the flauntin' flowers 

of sin, 
Into which the wisest mortal ain't too good to tumble in ; 
And when you think you're walkin' in the holy light of noon, 
Maybe you're only follerin' the Devil's pasteboard moon. 

And the best that any man can do is simply plod along, 
Strivin' with some weary miles of right to discount miles of 

wrong ; 
Trustin' that his bad will not outweigh the good he gamely 

tried, 
In the round-up of the sheep and goats beyond the Great 

Divide. 

So I guess you may be able to pass in your chips in style. 
If your moral average ain't short by more'n half a mile, 
When the final whistle's music mingles with your parting 

breath, 
And you make your ghostly exit through the yawning doors 

of death. 



147 



ADAM BUGG IN A MIX-UP 

[1898] 

I ain't much on solid thinkin', but I've got a grip on rhyme, 
Which emboldens me to try to tell about a pleasant time 

That enlivened the Division called numerically Third, 
But 'twould take a bloomin' Shakspere to describe just what 
occurred. 

It started somehow this way: Mr. Templar rashly sought 
To heave a chunk of sarcasm at Gompers's dome of thought. 

Sam has got an even temper that ain't easy to provoke, 
But he ain't the kind of target for no Pennsylvania joke. 

So he fired a verbal broadside to sweep Templar from his path ; 
Missed the gent that he was after, and awakened Giles's wrath. 

Then the latter gent in anger swatted everything in sight, 
And put Ziegler, Harper, Allen, Mutchler, Phelps et al. to flight. 

But Professor Johnny Spencer, who was perched upon his chair, 
Neatly ducked, and gamely countered with a joke on Morgan's 
hair. 

Then the thing became a mix-up that was beautiful to see ; 
For repartees, bon-mots, and sich was flyin' fast and free. 



148 



Beadle, Donegan, and Quinn broke loose to show they were not 

proud, 
Breakin' the repose of Edelen and the silent Mr. Lowd. 

While Jack Roberts, Smith, and Carney sought excitement in 

the broil. 
With irrelevant reflections on the whiskerlings of Doyle. 

Martin, Purvis, Vaughn, Ross, Hazle all serenely waded in, 
And Jarvis Moulden scored with a probationary grin. 

And with nerve Napoleonic, Mr. Jaeger all the while 
Stood and viewed the bloomin' ruction with a bland and genial 
smile. 

Then Foreman Roberts called the game, and piped all hands 

to " rush," 
And the jamboree of intellect was followed by a hush. 

I ain't much on solid thinkin', but at rhymin' I'm a peach ; 
And such scenes as these is likely to result in flowery speech. 

For the brain-tank of the poet is electrically stirred 
When the think-wheels gits to hummin' in the gay and festive 
Third. 



149 



YE NIGHT MANNE 

As pictured in the Hand-Set Reveries of Adam Bugg. 

Ho ! brother of laborious hours nocturnal, 
Who makest mad thy brother of the day, 

Provoking overheated words infernal, 
I fain would do thee justice in this lay. 

I know how thou dost nightly paw our cases 
And scatter leads and slugs and pi abroad. 

And much debris in most ungodly places. 
Even yesterday my case by thee was pawed 

Yet I've no wicked howl for the officials. 

Although last week I lost doc stick and rule, 

And view with pain and awe thy bold initials 
Carved neatly on my new two-dollar stool. 

I know what snares and pitfalls deep beset thee, 
Oh, pale, laborious brother of the night ; 

So let no dark, remorseful feelings fret thee, 
But listen while in rhyme I set thee right. 

Thou art but human, though thy hours are ghostly ; 

And so in charity I feel inspired 
To venture that thy deviltry is mostly 

Due to a common all-round case of tired. 



150 



Perhaps the sounds of day disturbed thy slumber, 
And thou didst labor with an aching head. 

Small wonder, then, if stacks of pi should cumber 
The spot where I'm supposed to earn my bread. 

Maybe the precious hours of sleep were fated 
On pleasure's wing to swiftly slip away, 

And thy inspiring presence decorated 
The pleasant precincts of the matinee. 

Thou knowest well that e'en the midday prowler 
Must watch and pray to keep the moral law, 

And yet, perchance, the base plebeian " growler " 
Did draw thee with a lingering dark-brown draw. 

Night Manne, even in my wrathfulness, believe me, 

I find for thee excuses many a one. 
And, then, who knows how many things that grieve me 

To thee are charged that other hands have done. 

Ho ! brother of laborious hours nocturnal, 
I've got to end my glad, fraternal rhyme, 

Soft be your sleep and be your dreams supernal ; 
And bring my stick and rule back, or I'll — Time ! 



151 



BILL BILLFORCE 

A ballad of hand-set days, wherein it is recited how an am- 
bitious and patriotic Nightmanne was dragged into ye 
daylight bye ye Golden Chain of Love. 

[1902] 

Bill Billforce loved a maiden fair, 

Yet sweetest in ye Swamp; 
At least Bill often so averred. 

He was her only comp. 

And yet Bill found himself, alas, 

In most unhappy plight ; 
Ye maiden would not marry him 

Because he toiled at night. 

" Oh, dear one," Bill would often say, 
" My efforts please them so 
That when ye night force is made up. 
They will not let me go. 

" For bills and speeches must not wait 
On comps whose record is 
Below ye mark when winter comes 
And work begins to whiz. 

" So I must roll my shirt-sleeves up, 
When darkness hits ye earth, 
And set ye types nocturnally. 
For all that I am worth. 



152 



" In haste I strive to leave behind 
My fellow printer lads, 
Achieving glory and a name, 
As well as extra scads. 

" And since my forefathers of old 
Ye Sword of Freedom drew 
And slugged ye English, why should I 
Not slug ye English, too?" 

His words were music to her ears ; 

But well ye maiden saw 
How wicked night men from her side 

That wavering comp did draw. 

" I cannot tell," she often sighed. 

Her tender eyes aglow, 
" How I admire and love you. Bill. 

But wed a night man ? No !" 

Bill struggled hard, but growing weak, 

By tender glances won, 
At last he flung night's mantle oif 

And toiled beneath ye sun. 

Then, when he said, " Dear girl, be mine ; 

I yield unto your will," 
Ye maiden answered with a kiss, 

" I'll be daylighted. Bill." 



153 



BALLAD OF THE BINDERY BOY 

Oh, they laugh when I sing of love, 

They laugh at my love for you ; 
They will not believe what my heart has said, 
And you are laughing, too. 
You laugh and my soul annoy. 
And my peace of mind destroy. 
Because I'm a rollicking 
Gay and frolicking 
Pride of the Bindery Boy. 

I am dreaming the whole day long. 

While my thoughts into music run, 
Of a day when we'll at the altar stand. 
Two volumes bound in one. 
For you are my only joy, 
My true one sweet and coy. 
Although I'm a rollicking 
Gay and frolicking 
Pride of the Bindery Boy. 



154 



Topical Verses 

[The Home Papers] 



155 



THE JOURNALISTIC RHYMSTER 

LWashington Times] 

I am no molder of old-fashioned verses 

To charm the sHppered bookman at his ease ; 

No tale of ardent love my heart rehearses 

In honeyed phrase. I strike no maudlin keys. - 

No harp divine by my light digits smitten 
Tinkles and thrills or sounds the battle clang ; 

But of today my jocund songs are written, 
Well seasoned with a dash of modern slang. 

Let bookish bards trill lays of times romantic 
Or elevate the world with soulful gush ; 

Still I must sing in stanzas unpedantic 
Of men whose crowning virtue is to rush. 

Mine is the music of an age of hustle, 
The trolley's clatter and the auto's chug. 

The cries discordant of the ceaseless tussle 
Where strenuous mortals push and pull and tug. 

I'm just an unregenerate song-grafter, 

Eschewing mawkish moods and undipped hair, 

Well pleased if now and then a peal of laughter 
But greet my mongrel rhymes dispelling care. 



157 



RHYMES OF THE HH^POWHEEL 

[Washington Republic, 1880] 
PROLOGUE 

Slowly they drift, 

Or lazily swift 
Over seemly dead levels go skimming, 

Aloft on a wheel 

Made of rubber and steel. 
Neither walking nor flying nor swimming. 

Like an incarnate breeze. 

Born of sunshine and trees 
Seems the bicycler noiselessly hieing. 

With a rigid backbone, 

When his day's work is done 
And the day apopleticly dying. 

Oh, never did man. 

Not since motion began 
(Neither walking nor flying nor swimming) , 

So lazily swift. 

So complacently drift, 
The rich cream of rapidity skimming. 



158 



SONG OF THE BICYCL.BRS 

So tranquilly we hie along 

We hardly know we're hieing. 
And yet we're certain that we hie, 
Unless our wits are much awry, 

Beyond all qualifying. 
On wings of joy the moments fly 
(As those may learn who care to try) 
Beyond a doubt we're hieing. 

So tranquilly we skim along 

We hardly know we're skimming, 
Although all objects in the eye 
(As those may learn who care to try) 

Are vanishingly swimming. 
Oh, yes, indeed ; we surely skim. 
As all may learn by use of limb. 
Beyond a doubt we're skimming. 

We glide along so tranquilly, 
We hardly know we're gliding. 

And yet supernally we glide, 

As all admit who've truly tried ; 
It's very plain we're gliding. 

Oh, rarer pastime far is bi- 

(As those may learn who care to try) 
Cycling than horseback riding. 



159 



BICYCLE JENKINS 

Mr. Bicycle Jenkins, adored of the girls, 

Sits aloft on his wheels 

Till the intellect reels 
As he swims in sidereal twinkles of twirls. 

With a little round cap on his twistical brains 

He whistles a stave 

As he skims o'er the pave. 
Winning feminine smiles of regard for his pains. 

And his sweetheart informs him that nightly in dreams 

On his twistical feet. 

Passing softly and sweet. 
He glides in a glory of glittering gleams. 

" And, oh, Bicy ! " she gushingly murmurs, "my heart 
Is a pavement of tar 
Over which, like a star, 
You twinkle along through a welkin of art." 



160 



HIGHWAY DITTY 

Behold, I am Captain Jenkins ! 

I am a knight of the wheel 
As I glide on a ghostly ripple 

Of hurry and glittering steel. 

My wheels in the sunlight ashimmer, 
In the streets of the town I appear, 

With the hucksterman and the grocer 
Plodding briskly along in my rear. 

Ah, me ! 'tis a bonny pastime 
The ribbon of distance to reel, 

Aloft on a ghostly ripple 

Of hurry and glittering steel. 



161 



TE JOLLIE BICYCLER 

That steed was never born of flesh 

Whereon he blythely rideth, 
And with no nag from pasture fresh 

Such tireless speed abideth. 

And well, I ween, his wiry thews 
For feats of strength are suited, 

And certes noiseless rubber shoes 
Suit chargers cycle-footed. 

This jollie wight he mounts betimes, 
Along the highway stretching 

With such cool speed as these poor rhymes 
Are sorely tried in sketching. 

He haunteth man-frequented ways. 
And where the grain is yellow 

Meandereth in autumn days 
The blythe bicycle fellow. 

Nor in the fall alone, I ween, 
But in the spring and summer 

He wandereth where oft is seen 
The transitory bummer — 



162 



By quiet glens where rustic spooks 
Haunt woodlands melancholy, 

Or yet where sing the little brooks 
Their endless pastorale. 

Full oft he meeteth buxom girls, 
And tramps just out of limbo. 

The mouth-wide-open country churls, 
Milkmaids with arms akimbo. 

For maiden smile or look of awe 

He has a hasty greeting. 
Imparting well the solemn saw 

How that man's life is fleeting. 

Oh, ne'er before since Time, I wis. 

Began to wield his sickle 
Was wrought a hybrid such as this, 

Half man and half vehicle. 



163 



CONCORD SUMMER SCHOOL OF PHILOSOPHY 

[The Washington Hatchet, 1884] 
SING A SONG OF CONCORD 

Across the moorland of the Not 

We chase the gruesome When 
And hunt the Itness of the What 

Through jungles of the Then. 

Into the inner consciousness 

We track the crafty Where; 
We grab the Ergo tough and beard 

The Ego in his lair. 

With lassoes of the mind we catch 

The Isness of the Was, 
And in the thickets of the Whence 

We hear the Think Bugs buzz. 

We climb the lofty Whichwhat Tree 

To watch the Thusness roll 
And pause betimes in gnostic rhymes 

To woo the Over Soul. 



164 



CONCERNING THE CONCORD PHILOSOPHY 

Oh, mark the words, my brudder, 

That I's about to say 
Regardin' of an evil 

Which confronts the land today. 

Don't you have no kind of doin's 

With that hiferlutin' herd 
Which am tryin' for to lure you 

From the pages of the Word. 

Let them eat the husks and parin's 
Of the Couldness of the Should, 

But that ain't the black man's diet 
When he seeks the heavenly food. 

It may suit the feet of culchaw 

To go trollopin' about 
Through the brambles and the mud holes 

Of the Mus'ness of the Mought. 

But I tell you that the sinnah 
Will be lost that wanders thar, 

And the soul am lost that wrassles 
With the Wharness of the Whar. 

And I jest advise you, chillun, 
For to leave the What alone, 

And don't listen to the Wasness 
When the tuneful Is am flown. 



165 



Oh, beware of Satan, sinnah ; 

He am swift and he am strong. 
And he rides the snortin' Henceness 

With intent to do you wrong. 

Watch your step or he will snare you. 
When the gospel fire am low, 

With the Wharness of the Tharness 
And the Ahness of the Oh. 

Thar is red-hot fires aroarin' 
In the Itness of the Which, 

And the eyeballs of the Thingness 
Am ablaze with burnin' pitch. 

Oh, brudder, don't you hear it — 
Don't you hear the dreadful din 

Where the Whatlet am adrippin' 
With the elbow grease of sin? 

Then come up, brudder, sister, 
And unburden your distress 

Whar the Whatlets cease to trouble 
And the Meness am at res'. 

Come, and quit your wicked foolin' 
With the Whichness of the How. 

For the only hope for sinnahs 
Am the Heahness of the Now. 



166 



MUSINGS OF A WOMAN SUFFRAGIST 

(More or less prophetici 
[Washing-ton Hatchet, 1888] 

If we were only Congressmen, 

Or rather Congressladies, 
No Congressman should drink again 

Of cold tea steeped in Hades. 

The other sex we'd leave at home 
Who long have treated us ill; 

We'd buy the Goddess on the Dome 
A bulging big bronze bustle. 

The man who puffs from cigarettes 

The smoke in ladies' faces 
And him whose slangy talk begets 

Of nausea the traces; 

The gawk who treads on ladies' trains, 

The high-hat criticizer, 
Likewise the cruel, void-of-brains 

Anti-spring-bonnet miser — 

Aye, him who after humor strives 
In vaunting his high-hat ire 

And plants the mothers of men's wives 
On pedestals of satire — 



167 



All these and more we'd squelch by law, 

And just depend upon it 
That we would get Columbia 

A Prohibition bonnet. 

We'd pass such laws men would go right 
Even when they struggled wrongwards ; 

Even in the moment of their flight 

Bad words would change to song words. 

The lie fresh from the liar's lips 
Would cease to be mendacious; 

E'en the fish liar, in strange eclipse, 
Could not but be veracious. 

Strong drink would soften ere it passed 

The gastronomic throttle. 
Or, if it were not poured too fast. 

As it glugged from the bottle. 

No legislative spirit then, 

Which of reform afraid is, 
Would rule if we were Congressmen, 

Or, rather, Congressladies. 



168 



SONGS OF THE ANTHRACITE COAL STRIKE, 1902 

[Washington Post] 
THANKS TO BAER 

That thou hast loosed thy fateful grip at last, 
And in thy store of coal dost let us share, 

So that we fear no more the wintry blast ; 

That thou dost grant us peace and plenty where 

A week ago stalked grim despair. 
We thank thee, Baer, 

Our thanks arise because the Almighty placed 
The Pennsylvania coal mines in thy care. 

And if we could, for gifts to thee not traced — 
For drinks we drink, for what we eat and wear, 

Likewise for sunlight and for air — 
We'd thank thee, Baer. 

By glowing fires which soon shall warm them througi. 

Husband and wife, and children everywhere, 
The baby on the hearth-rug warm — oo-goo — 

The housemaid and the fond and loving pair, 
And grandpa in his old armchair, 

All thank thee, Baer. 



169 



THE ANTHRACITE OF LOVE 

Dost thou dread the coming winter, 

Oh, beloved of my soul ? 
Spake the Bard of Avon truly — 

All that glitters is not coal. 
Be thou mine, and no chill tremors 

Through thy tender frame shall dart ; 
For there's warmth potential hidden 

In the coal mines of the heart. 

Though the east wind madly mutters 

At the frosty window pane. 
And the hyperborean breezes 

Mingle snow and sleet and rain. 
We'll but laugh to scorn, my darling, 

The coal barons of the mart ; 
For there's anthracite aplenty 

In the coal bins of the heart. 

Fang of frost nor breath of blizzard 

Shall affright thee, darling one. 
Though the price of coal soar higher 

Than a hundred plunks per ton. 
We will only snuggle closer. 

And no frost our souls shall part. 
While love's anthracite is glowing 

In the fire-place of the heart. 



170 



THE OLD PIANO 

Drag forth the old piano, pa, I feared 'twould come at last ; 
So slowly were the coal bins filled that hope has long since 

passed. 
For ten long weeks the mercury has stood at ten below ; 
The earth is covered ten feet deep with mingled sleet and snow ; 
And men have had to sacrifice for warmth almost the whole 
Of everything combustible to burn instead of coal. 

Drag forth the old piano, pa. What memories cluster round 
That dear old rosewood instrument, the home of heavenly 

sound ! 
When first I touched its virgin keys we'd only just been wed. 
And sweet unto our love-tuned ears the music that it shed. 
So true it spoke it almost seemed to have a mortal soul. 
And now we'll have to chop it up to burn instead of coal. 

The furniture is all consumed from chairs to escritoire. 

And wolfish winds with teeth of frost still howl about the door. 

So drag the old piano out. What music used to flow 

When sister Mary made it talk some forty years ago; 

What good old songs it helped along which 'neath our roof did 

roll; 
But now we'll have to chop it up to burn instead of coal. 

Drag forth the old piano, pa, and go and get the ax : 
Even now with quaking heart I hear the devastating whacks. 
Well I remember when you joined the Anthracite Quartet ; 
I hear " Down in a Coal Mine " sung in deep- voiced cadence yet. 
But now no " dusky diamonds " we get from that deep hole. 
And we must use the household pride to burn instead of coal. 



171 



HOW AN EX-PRESIDENT FAILED TO SAVE HIS 
COUNTRY 

[Washington Post, November 7, 1902] 

The land was overrun by Anarchs wild 
And Pseudo-Patriots — a brawling brood. 

Who in unseemly Recrudescence smiled 
And failed to seek Innocuous Desuetude. 

But stores of Thought I hold in usufruct, 

Safe hid in my encephalonic cells, 
Ripe fruitage from the Tree of Knowledge plucked, 

Which oft has stilled the Spoilsman's blatant yells. 

So to save Freedom's Temple from the shocks 
Of Demagogy's fell plutonian powers, 

I shored it up with Truth's granitic blocks 
And polysyllabled its crumbling towers. 

Then from my academic habitat, 

Heedless of those who scoifed in Ghoulish Glee, 
I came resolved, ere Truth was leveled flat, 

To save the Institutions of the Free. 

The raucous ululations of the Crowd, 

The futile javelins of vulgar jest. 
The scorn of Plutocratic Barons proud. 

Served not to swerve me from my doughty quest. 

With ratiocinative catapults 

I shook the bastioned walls where Error throve ; 
But, victim of fatiferous results, 

I strove in vain — even I, the Ego Grove. 



172 



BECAUSE HE DIDN'T TAKE HIS LEAVE 

[Washington Post, October 26, 1902] 

(A jingle in tribute to a Government worker the head of 
whose bureau commended him publicly for having gone 
fourteen years without taking any of his annual leave.) 

Uncle Sam once had a truly trusty clerk 

For his little monthly stipend proud to work, 
And he did not like vacations, 
For he deemed his time the nation's, 

To be passed in daily toil without a shirk. 
The summer sun might sizzle, broil, or roast 
In its fierce desire to drive him from his post ; 

But that was not a thing to make him grieve. 
For somehow he had a notion 
That at last he'd win promotion — 

Just because he didn't take his leave. 

Nature called him to the hills and to the shore; 

Told him what she had for weary brains in store. 
But he strove against her power. 
Missed the charm of bird and flower 

And the summer girl with witchery galore. 
The fragrance of the flower was not for him, 
Nor the twitter of the bird upon the limb ; 

But this was not a thing to make him grieve. 
For his chief's approving glances 
Told him of his brightening chances — 

Just because he didn't take his leave. 

Though vacationless he toiled from year to year, 
Pause, oh, rash leave-taker, ere in scorn you jeer. 

What is summer dissipation 

To the burden of a nation 
Shouldered howe'er humbly with a heart sincere? 

It is true he never foozled on the links 

And knew nothing of society's high jinks; 
But that was not a thing to make him grieve. 

For to work he was devoted 

And at last he got promoted — 
Just because he didn't take his leave. 

173 



UNCLE SAM TO WU 

[Washington Post, 1902] 

This nosegay wild 

Of Yankee ragtime verses undefiled 

Is dedicated to 

A pagan who 

Has much extended my provincial view ; 

To wit : to Wu. 

Oh, suave Confucian diplomat, 

Thou didst essay to teach 

That lofty thought and even festive speech 

Date back, may be, 

At least to Ararat, 

And do not flourish free, 

Luxuriant and new. 

Alone in Bryan and Depew 

Or any of the proud spellbinding few. 

With genial guile 

Thou madst the ungodly smile 

At childlike, aimless shots, 

Which somehow sometimes reached my tender spots ; 

And thou wouldst not make glad 

The hearts of Chinophobes by being bad. 

Thou didst not stay up late 

And dissipate ; 

Poker thou didst eschew. 

Oh, Wu. 



174 



Perhaps fan-tan 

Is better suited to thy moral plan. 

But, no; 

I'll let that pass — 

For much I grieve, alas, 

To miss the Oriental glow 

Of thy thought's flow ; 

Yet tears of joy, I guess, some time will pour 

To see thy bland and friendly smile once more, 

Dispelling pagan shadows of the past, 

As it lights up at last 

The Open Door. 

Like me, 

A question asker, thou, of high degree. 

Which makes my woe 

Much deeper than it otherwise would grow ; 

For, oh. 

Even the Interrogation Point 

Is out of joint 

Since thou must go. 



175 



THE GENTLE CHIEF 

[Washington Post, November 9, 1902] 

He was mild and gentle-spoken, 

And his restful smile unbroken, 
Shone through whiskers somewhat clerical in fashion ; 

He was free from every weakness 

And his air of lofty meekness 
Told that he had never given rein to passion. 

He believed in soulful leisure, 

And he never felt the seizure 
Of a wish to tackle work in strenuous grapples. 

So his clerks he never goaded. 

And his desk was always loaded 
With bouquets, and sweetmeats rare, and big red apples. 

Did a clerk at times get noddy. 

Due perhaps to too much toddy. 
He would not with censure hurt his finer feeling, 

He'd ignore all symptoms beery. 

And with Christian words of cheer, he 
Would uplift his clerks if ere he saw them reeling. 

On the head he'd kindly pat them. 

And he never muttered " Drat 'em ! " 
Lest such cruelty of speech might move to curses. 

But if nothing else would do them 

He would read a poem to them ; 
For his forte was writing strictly moral verses. 



176 



If the air got overheated 

In the summer — if it sleeted, 
And the bhzzard raved in cadence wild and moany — 

He would gather them together, 

And they'd analyze the weather 
In a care-dispelling conversazione. 

If a literary clerkess 

Who disdained to be a workess. 
Strove in romance-reading stunts to brightly bunch time, 

He'd request her to stop reading 

Till the hour had come for feeding, 
And discuss the story's plot with her at lunch time. 

To his lady clerks flirtatious 

He was always kind and gracious, 
Whether females of the lower class or upper; 

And lest they again might wander. 

He would have them sit and ponder. 
While he read some lines from Martin Farquhar Tupper. 

On this earth no more you'll find him, 

And there's no one left behind him, 
Who so well for painless discipline is fitted. 

But for him be not regretful, 

Since he dwells of care forgetful 
Where unruly clerks will never be admitted. 



177 



UNCLE SAM TO MISS CANADA 

iThe Alaskan Boundary Commission having decided in favor 
of the United States.) 

[Washington Post, 1903] 

I am sorry for you, sister, and I know your case is sad ; 

And though mine has been the profit, yet it hurts me most as 

bad. 
And of course I do not blame you if you feel a little sore 
Since my line-fence was allowed to run jam up by your back 

door. 

But remember while in anger you defy the motherland 

With the threat of independence, and your sons undaunted 

stand 
With their bosoms well inflated for a fiercely warlike shout, 
That your Uncle Sam'll git you if you don't watch out. 

It'll do you good to whimper ; for you've not been vexed by strife 
And the things most of us suffer in the nursery of life, 
And you've yet to learn that living hasn't quite lost all its joy 
Just because some bigger infant has purloined a treasured toy. 

There's a hint of future greatness in the music of your sobs, 
And I'm glad your heart unfettered at the thought of freedom 

throbs. 
And I hope you'll soon feel better. But, remember, when you 

pout, 
That your Uncle Sam'll git you if you don't watch out. 



178 



BATTLE HYMN OF PANAMA 

[Washing^ton Post. November 10, 1903] 

From no mountain height of Freedom 

Was our glorious flag unfurled 
And we sought no grandstand plaudits, 

Firing shots heard round the world. 
Times have changed since gory heroes 

Of their fights for country bragged ; 
Mid no war shouts rose our standard, 

But our courage never flagged. 

For we sat in secret conclave 

When we built us up a state, 
Sons of Freedom, cool and cautious. 

Subtle, keen, and up to date ; 
Laid our wires with skill artistic, 

Planning 'gainst untimely slips, 
With much faith in business methods 

And an Uncle who has ships. 

No long list of dead and wounded 

Glorifies our virgin scroll. 
Though against the Constitution 

We set out for Freedom's goal ; 
But we've shown how modern heroes, 

Free from wild unseemly hate. 
Can, without undue excitement. 

Build republics while you wait. 



179 



REMARKS BY A HARD SPITTER 

[Washington Post, March 30, 1903] 

The world is getting better, Bill, 
Since you and I were boys, 

And will not brook unpleasant sights 
And unesthetic noise. 

The world is getting better. Bill, 

And now it is the talk 
That we're to be forbid by law 

From spitting on the walk. 

The world is getting better. Bill, 
Which I don't much regret; 

It yet will be a heinous crime 
To smoke a cigarette. 

Things which offend the cultured gaze 
Will be removed from view, 

And public whistling out of tune 
Will likewise be taboo. 

The world is getting better. Bill, 
And shirtsleeves on the street 

May yet offend against the law. 
However hot the heat. 

And with prophetic eyes I read 

A statute which asserts 
That women must in public wear 

Be-it-enacted skirts. 

The world is getting better, Bill ; 

Some day a law there'll be 
Reciting that our weekly baths 

At least shall number three. 



180 



When summer's unrestricted heat 

Suggests internal fires 
The workhouse will await the man 

Who sweats when he perspires. 

The world is getting better, Bill, 

By science pushed along, 
And many a helpful law shall yet 

Safeguard the reckless throng. 

They'll wash our souls with psychic soap 

Whene'er we downward sink. 
Lest bad bacilli vitiate 

The very thoughts we think. 

Yet still I fondly hanker. Bill, 

For those good days of yore, 
When we could spit upon the walk 

And even on the floor — 

When in robustious ignorance 

We stemmed the moral tide, 
And deep-drawn breaths of wholesome air 

Bacteria defied. 

The world is getting better, Bill, 

But I can't make the pace ; 
For I must chew and spit without 

Regard to time or place. 

And this my dream of heavenly bliss, 

To pass midsummer hours 
Where I can squirt tobacco juice 

At bugs among the flowers. 



181 



YE LIFTING OF YE CUPPE: A. D. 2093 

[Washington Post, August 23, 1903] 

Ye Duke of Shamrock paced ye coast 

Beside ye Irish main, 
And thus unto his son made boast 

How he renown did gain. 

Aloft, he said. Fame's tankard fling, 

And of contentment sup. 
While I in joyous language sing 

Ye lifting of ye Cuppe. 

Sir Tummus No. 1 essayed 

In vain that prize to lift, 
So that ye stout endeavor made 

Much havoc with his thrift. 

Of worldly goods, I ween, he had 

A goodly overflow; 
It made ye shipwrights feel right glad 

When he coughed up ye dough. 

Yet haply on ye other side 
Ye Cuppe had always stayed, 

But good Sir Tummus ere he died 
Married a Yankee maid. 

That union was with sea dogs blest 

Of Lipton's salt-sea line, 
Who ne'er forgot their founder's quest 

A-sailing o'er ye brine. 

And year by year ye Cuppe they sought 

In vain across ye sea, 
Until at last ye people thought 

It could not lifted be. 



182 



In jovial mood men jeered and sniffed, 

And said it was absurd ; 
Yet I at last ye Cuppe did lift, 

With Shamrock XXXIII. 

Ye Eagle Bird did proudly glide, 
With Yankee cunning wrought, 

When I upon ye other side 
Ye longed-for trophy sought. 

Right gallantly she cut ye brine ; 

But I upon ye shore 
Did push ye Shamrock o'er ye line 

With wireless trolley power. 

And when ye Yankees cried, "A fluke ! " 

It did not vex me, son ; 
For I was shortly made a duke 

Because ye Cuppe I won. 

And you shall have, when I am dead. 

Ye Cuppe to hold for life. 
Thanks to ye craft inherited 

From good Sir Tummus' wife. 

In gentle breeze or howling blast, 
Guard well that relic. Zounds ! 

That beastly mug from first to last 
Has cost ten million pounds ! 



1«3 



THE TALKATIVE WAR CLOUD 

[Washing-ton Plate Printer, September 15, 1904] 

I am a good old War Cloud, 

Fond of a lively scrap, 
And for The Hague Tribunal 

I do not give a rap. 

For in my breast are hidden 
The tangled skeins of fate, 

The fires of human passion 
And fratricidal hate. 

I view the angry peoples, 

My darkening wings outspread. 

And when they get to fighting 
Red tears of joy I shed. 

Sweet are the sounds of battle 
What time in martial glee. 

With Shakspere's Puck, I am thinking 
What fools these mortals be. 

'Tis fun to hear them preaching 
Of days when strife shall cease, 

While raising bigger armies 
With which to keep the peace. 

And while they swat each other 
And paint the earth with gore, 

As for The Hague Tribunal 
I hate it more and more. 

For Fm a good old War Cloud 

And like no tender tune, 
But want to see the Powers 

Get at each other soon. 



184 



John Bull's a strenuous scrapper, 
And for a Christian gent 

His list of slaughter reaches 
A pretty big per cent. 

And Uncle Sam's in training, 
Who used to be so meek ; 

You bet it's safe no longer 
To smite his other cheek. 

So ere the struggle's ended 
'Twixt Muscovite and Jap, 

I hope they'll all be mingled 
In a good old world-wide scrap. 

I want to see them scrapping 
In good old-fashioned style 

Unvexed by windy mouthings 
Of diplomatic guile. 

I want to see them scrapping 

And hear their shouts and groans 

Mid seas of gore and mountains 
Of unassorted bones. 

Until at last exhausted 

From war each nation shrinks, 
And then The Hague Tribunal 

Can ravel out the kinks. 



185 



OPENING THE DOOR 

[Washing-ton Times, July. 1905] 

To the Timple of Pace now the world turns its eyes — 
All the Christians at laste, an' some haythen likewise. 
And indade 't will be best for th' world in th' ind, 
When th' Russ clasps the hand of th' Jap as a frind. 
For th' Powers '11 be prisint wid schames to unfold 
Tradin' progress an' culture for slathers of gold. 

Where th' man in th' rickshaw now rides at his aise, 
Th' contimptyus conductor'll yell, " Stip lively, plase ! " 
Spears of infloonce will spring where th' chopstick wance grew, 
An' th' heads of th' masses grow bald where th' queue. 
Held these cinturies long in the hard hand of fate, 
Kept th' down-trodden haythens from strikin' their gait. 

We'll improve their theayters wid knock-about mokes 
An' th' pick of our ragtime an' Tind'rline jokes. 
Not to mintion th' wild, headlong plunge into tanks. 
For reforums aplinty they'll have to give thanks 
And a few slight concissions to open up trade ; 
An' 'twill be a bright marnin' for Progriss, indade, 
Wid th' chist of King Cotton swilled out till it hurts. 
Whin thim five hundred millions of haythen buy shirts. 



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CARNEGIE'S DREAM 

[Washington Trades-Unionist] 

Andrew Carnegie had a dream one night 

Which, when he woke, made earthly pathways bright. 

It seems he wandered by St. Peter's gate 

And found that he was twenty minutes late. 

Exceeding wealth had made Carnegie bold ; 

So, as on earth, he strenuously strolled. 

Lost in the emptiness of mortal fame. 

But soon he heard St. Peter call : " Your name ? 

Carnegie? Then I'd seek, if I were you, 

The Needle's Eye. Perhaps you can squeeze through.'' 

At this Carnegie felt some slight dismay, 

And trembled as he heard the voice : " This way ! " 

Yet he strode forward at a rapid pace 

Till, where the Needle's Eye once had a place, 

Lo, o'er a spacious portal his own bust 

Was niched mid sculptured emblems of the just, 

And safe where wealth could burden him no more 

Carnegie passed through the Library Door. 



187 



THE POETS 

[Washington Star] 

These are the makers of song, 
Simple and tender and strong, 
Standing rapt in the glory 
Of thought that burns steady and passes 
In its sweep from the stars to grave grasses. 
From the joy to the grief of life's story. 

Fair in their hearts rises youth ; 
There smoulder embers of truth. 
Strewn with ashes of sorrow. 
There are pain and regret and the traces 
Of conflict with sin in their faces ; 

But they dream of a better tomorrow. 

They bend, in the temple of song, 
Their strength to the struggle with wrong 
And they find a sure guerdon 
In the hope that their souls may be gifted 
So to sing that some toiler uplifted 

May stoop with less pain 'neath his burden. 

Theirs is the passion that glows 
Pure as the breath of a rose ; 
In their bosoms are burning 
The fires of the heart's sweet awaking, 
Of the joy that is almost heart-breaking. 
Of deep love in its uttermost yearning. 



1S8 



Calm 'raid the strife of the throng, 
These are the makers of song, 
Human tenderness voicing; 
From the griefs of humanity reaping 
A fruitage of cheer; in men's weeping 

Finding chords of a hymn of rejoicing. 

They, where men falter and grope, 
Come with the blossoms of hope, 
Fair from the fields of the ages. 
Fragrant with promise of cleaner. 
Sweeter with love, and serener 

Records of man in life's pages. 

Theirs is the battle with fate, ■ 
Theirs is the torch at the gate 
Of the stronghold of error ; 
And men, while war's echoes go ringing. 
Hear the sweet undertones in their singing 
Of peace and the passing of terror. 

These are the makers of song, 
Scorners of foulness and wrong, 
And base pride in high places, 
Who with mirth too heroic for laughter 
Foretell a love-lighted hereafter, 

With the glow of its dawn in their faces. 



189 



THE ONE SURE THING 

[Washington Star] 

There are sounds of laughter and singing 
And sounds that of woe make part, 

As the earth to its fate goes swinging ; 
But love is lord of the heart, 

And cloudy or fair the weather, 

Some souls will be drifting together, 
And souls be drifting apart. 

Dark evil may lurk in the byways. 
Still blinking in wrath at the dawn, 

And the terror leap forth on the highways 
Of the sword from its scabbard withdrawn ; 

But cloudy or fair the weather, 

Some souls will be drifting together. 
And souls be drifting apart. 

Though unmoved by the poet's dreaming. 

Men tarry too long in the mart. 
And grow cold in the pride of their scheming, 

Yet love is lord of the heart ; 
And cloudy or fair the weather. 
Some souls will be drifting together, 

And souls be drifting apart. 



190 



